


Introduce A Little Anarchy

by xagentofchaos



Series: Batjokes drabbles [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Dark Knight (2008)
Genre: Anxiety, Hallucinations, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Slow Burn, Zombie Apocalypse, a few years after the dark knight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-04-01 05:56:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 28,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4008439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xagentofchaos/pseuds/xagentofchaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where a zombie apocalypse destroyed Gotham, Bruce lost his home and has to survive alone. He took his car and drove away from the city, just left everything behind him. For a long time he’s alone until he ends up in a hoard of zombies and has no chance of surviving, if a stranger with a cat hadn’t saved him. </p><p>Except that he isn’t a stranger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He never _needed_ the money, he just owned them. At some point in his life though, the money became a part of who he was; in order to fight crime. In order to _be_ Batman, he had to be rich. At least that’s what he thought, when he spent thousands, close to millions, of dollars on complicated weapons and cars. Perhaps he never really believed in himself, he pretty much relied on the objects bought with money, instead of himself. Because now, a year after he drove away from the screams and torn apart bodies, he’s been surviving without expensive things. He is good, he knows it by now. Enough supplies and good weapons is basically the only thing he needs to survive. And with good weapons, he isn’t talking about his pneumatic mangler crop or batarangs. He’s talking about simple handguns, kitchen knives and baseball bats. 

A year ago, the city he lived and breathed in was on fire. Buildings were crushed; the flames rose high up on the sky, helicopters and planes circulated above the screaming citizens. No one could quiet grasp the reason of the outbreak; no one understood why some people in the city would start chewing on others. He’d been sitting with the older men, the _important people_ , discussing and listening to their theories while more and more innocent people died and came back to life. At first, they thought it was a new kind of super drug. A drug that increased your wild behavior to max level; the predator you were born to be. But when people with no history of ever taking any kind of drug, was affected, they changed their minds; brows furrowed deeply on their wrinkled foreheads. 

As if he hadn’t been suffering through years of nightmares already; watching his own butler trying to take a good bite out of Bruce’s arm, was enough for him to handle. So he fled, he left the city to burn down to ashes and rotting, living corpses to manage the rest of his life alone. 

He quite enjoyed his life; living on cans by the fire and mauling zombies in their rotting sculls. It wasn’t like the paradise he used to have, but it was livable. It gave him strength both physically and mentally. He was _good_ at killing growling, human-eating beasts. 

That was, until one day when he had been out of gas. Kicking the wheels for a while to get his frustration out and then started to walk. He needed to always be moving, except when he was asleep (although, he never woke up on the same place he fell asleep on, sleepwalking is a serious thing). So he moved away from the car; the one that used to shine like diamonds in the sun but ended up being dirty and bloody from all the rotting zombies he’d drove over. Keeping a watchful eye on every direction that existed, so that no corpse would take a big chew of his neck. 

But he wasn’t careful enough; he paced fast on the dusty ground, gravel ended up in his shoes. So as he stopped to remove the stone gravel that stung into his footpad, he didn’t notice the hoard of ten up to fifteen getting close to him. He _did_ hear their growling when they were only a meter away, but by then; it was too late. He swung around and let his knife penetrate the closest brain; blood poured out of it and it fell down on the ground; _completely_ dead for real this time. He slaughtered two more but they just kept coming; reached out for his flesh with open mouths, teeth shattering. 

He backed away to have a chance to swing at them again but he tripped on his untied shoelace, falling backwards onto the ground; the group of dead falling down with him. He didn’t stop fight but he _knew_ that if a miracle didn’t happen, he’d be served as a main course. The smell of rotten was heavy in his face, sweat drippling down his forehead while struggling with pushing them off of him. He was seconds from giving up, to just let the monsters have a bite of him. Perhaps he deserved it, after everything that had happened. 

But the angel God had sent down, thought otherwise. Suddenly, a bunch of shots are being heard above him. One by one of the reeking corpses stops moving and the weight on him is worse than before. The only thing he can see is a slight ray of sunshine between flesh and blood. And a cat. He must be dreaming. 

“Did you plan on staying in that position all day, or are you coming?” he heard a voice say to him. If it truly was a dream, it would’ve been the cat talking, but it just stares at him through a small hole. Its eyes are glowing of amber. 

He tries to move any of his limbs but realizes he’s completely stuck.

“I need a hand,” he murmurs. 

“You’ve got plenty,” the voice says again and if Bruce wasn’t mistaken, he heard a snickering as well. He sighs heavily and just waits, doesn’t bother to respond to the bad joke. After a while, the man above him starts removing the hundred percent dead monsters that are lying heavily on top of him. When the last one was gone, he took a couple of deep breaths; all the way down in his lungs and up. The cat is mewing softly in his hear and licks the traces of blood on his face. 

“Now, now, Batsy, don’t get too adoring,” the man murmurs at plucks the cat up from the ground and pets its head while it’s purring deeply from its chest. Bruce freezes immediately on the spot and stares up at the ball of fur and the man who turns his back to him. 

“What did you call me?” he whispers out in tensed shock, tries his hardest to not shake visibly on his hands. Memories of Rachel suddenly hit his mind and he wants to scream. But doesn’t. 

“What?” the man is still turned with his back on Bruce. “Oh, no, no. The cat. Her name is Batsy.” Bruce doesn’t have to see it to know that the man is grinning. 

“But she’s white,” Bruce continues, still tensed up; on edge. But he rises to his feet, a bit wobbly from the workout. 

“She was the most precious one in the store, I couldn’t resist.” The man clasps a harness around the cat’s neck and body and then puts her down on the ground again. He turns to Bruce again, their eyes locks. “Are you coming?” 

Twice in just a couple of minutes, Bruce freezes. In front of him stands a pretty rugged person with a blue, dirty shirt and darkened, purple pants. The hair is long, dirty blonde and wavy. But it’s not his appearance that catches Bruce’s eyes. It’s the thick scars on his face, carved into a stretched smile from the corner of his lips to both cheeks. He has The Joker looking at him with intensely, blue eyes and Bruce can’t move. He gapes at the man, tries to find the right words. 

“Is there anything on my face?” Joker grins and turns around completely. He’s not wearing his ridiculous purple jacket or lilac clown shoes. Instead he looks more refined; black boots and just that shirt. The green vest must’ve been lost in the zombie chaos.

“Joker,” Bruce whispers finally, voice stiff in his throat. Joker’s smile dies quickly and his brows furrows. 

“Oh,” he snorts. “You’re from Gotham?” Bruce doesn’t know what to say. At first, he thinks Joker is joking around with him, that he’s playing one of his mind games. But then, he remembers he’s not wearing his mask. Bruce knows who this madman is, but Joker doesn’t recognize him. So he just nods, still staring. 

“You named the cat Batsy,” Bruce says slowly, not sure of how he’s supposed to move on at this point. He shouldn’t be talking to Joker at all. He should kill him. But instead he asks about the bloody cat. Great. 

Joker squints at him, leaning his head to the side as if trying to read Bruce’s mind. But then he grins again. “In memorial of Batman.” 

Of course. He is a joker after all.

How did he end up here, after everything he’s been fighting for? Side by side with Joker and his cat, walking through the zombie apocalypse. He avoids thinking about what Alfred would’ve said if he saw him now. What _Rachel_ had said; what he look in hear eyes had meant. Betrayal. Hurt. He can’t allow himself to think about that, so he just keeps on walking. From time to time, he can’t help but look at Joker from the corner of his eyes. Not because he’s curious about the madman’s story. No, because he doesn’t trust the clown, not one bit. 

Could it be worse than this? 

Sighing, he pushes away all thoughts and walks the distance in complete silence; both verbally and mentally. They walk in silence, not even looking at each other. Except for Batsy, who looks at her owner and the newcomer with a tired gaze. The only thing on her mind is tuna, tuna and how boring they are for not talking. But all she can do is mew and keep walking.


	2. Chapter 2

They had been sitting around the campfire when anyone of them spoke again. A couple of hours had faded within the sunrise and Bruce was building safety traps around them, in case an uninvited roamer would disturb them in the middle of the night. He had grown suspicious and paranoid early in his life. Long before Batman was even thought of. It was a part of living a wealthy life; don’t trust anyone, especially not your neighbors. 

During the apocalypse, he had learned how to build the safes traps. If a zombie would’ve passed through, he’d heard it and either slip away and hide or kill it from behind. It always worked. While he worked on the safety, Joker and Batsy roamed around inside of the circle; fixing with the food and the additional supplies you needed for the sleep and awakening the next morning. He heard the Joker mumble to his cat while walking around, holding her in his arms. He still had his old movements; twitched in the neck, slightly slumped back, licking his lips from time to time. 

Bruce sat down at the fire on his hard, but comfortable enough, backpack, leaning against a tree. At first, it was quiet between them as usual. They let the fire do the talking; flames sparkling. Joker was fiddling with a can, trying to get it open. When it popped and a little bit of juice squirted into his eyes (Bruce had to beat himself up on the inside to _not_ laugh), Joker muttering ‘ _Jesus Christ_ ’ before handing Bruce the open can. He accepted it and fished up the canned peaches with his clean knife. 

“So, uh,” Joker breaks the silence while eating the peaches with his fingers; sucking the juice from his index and middle, licking them clean. “Wayne. Is that a first- or surname?” 

Bruce realizes, while looking at Joker between the flames, that he never told the clown his first name. His instincts from hiding behind the mask never faded. But figuring he has nothing left to lose, the world is basically going to hell, he might as well tell him.

“Sur.” 

“So,” Joker continues, stretching the word out. “You’re a part of the Wayne’s Enterprises, or you married the guy who owned it?” Bruce chokes on a peach while Joker stares at him with a wide grin; eyes glistering dangerously in the fire. 

“I owned the Enterprises.” 

Joker hums. He opens another can with cat food and hands it over to an impatient Batsy. She makes a grateful purr in her throat while she gobbled the food down her stomach. 

“You’re Bruce, then.”

Bruce only nods, still stiff in his bones and on guard. Just in case. Anyone could’ve found out his secret. Although, he doubts anyone really cared when the city went down with the dead. But who knows what the Joker has been doing. 

“What happened with all of your money?” Joker asks, eyeing Bruce’s clothes. Not with a look of judgement, more amused. It’s a weird question, Bruce thinks. Since he never cared about the money. But he feels inclined to answer anyway, there’s no point in lying about that. It’s all gone. 

“They burned up.” When he had to put Alfred out of his wild misery, he also burned the house down. He doubts his Batcave was in any harm, but all of his possessions in the house are ashes. He spotted, while he fled, that pretty much every building was either broken or dust. Even the banks. 

“Copycat,” Joker snickers. 

They’re quiet for a while again; Joker leans against a tree with Batsy in his lap while Bruce slumbers for a couple of minutes. He dreams about the past; nightmares. Rachel is just about to blow up in front of him when Joker’s voice awakes him. 

“Look at me,” he murmurs, giggling softly. Bruce glares at him but realizes the madman wasn’t looking at him, but down at the cat. The clown chews on the last piece of peach from the can. “sitting by the bonfire with a rich guy and eating peaches.” Bruce can’t help but grin. The irony is beyond too much for him to handle, so he decides to ignore it instead. 

~~

It’s the cat that wakes him up, where he’s sleeping with his back against a tree. She mews softly in his ear and emphasizes her cheek against his. He huffs and pats her smooth fur; tangling its length between his fingers. He’s amazed of how clean she is, considering the environment and how long her fur truly is. He’d never really liked animals; never understood people’s fascination and adoration. But perhaps it’s just not for him to understand; being an introverted rich guy, that is. 

“Now, now, Brucey, don’t get too attached. She’ll start munching on your face if you don’t feed her soon.” Joker says from behind him, walking out from the narrow forest. There are more spots of blood on his shirt than it were yesterday; Bruce is eyeing his clothing with a curious look. Joker catches it and giggles. “Oh this?” he says and spins around on the ground, just as graceful as a hurt swan. “I was bored.”

“So you decided to go and kill some people.”

“Uh-uh, zombies, my friend,” he corrects, pointing his finger in Bruce’s face to the left and right several times; standing too close and too bent down. “Not people.” He collects Batsy from his lap and feeds her the rest of the canned cat food. “The wildlife with wilderness is not as… _exciting_ as the city were. But it’ll do.” He rolls his neck and snaps a few bones. “Which reminds me, why aren’t you on a big, big plane on your way to mars just like the rest of the rich guys, hm? Did you, uh, get left behind?” 

Bruce stares at him questioningly, not sure how to collect his mind.

“Why would I be on a big, big plane?” 

“To, uh, you know. Expand your territory.” 

Bruce continues to stare. 

“Conspiracy theories, Brucey,” Joker explain, tilting his head to the side. “You know some people believe in aliens. Others always knew we were the aliens.” He licks his lips. “Instead of green little monsters arriving to this planet, the people _became_ them. And you guys,” he points at Bruce again. “you leave in your UFO.” 

“You’re saying I’m an alien?” Bruce isn’t quiet grasping Joker’s theory. Although, question shouldn’t be what his thoughts are. The _true_ question is, why does he bother asking? Why didn’t he left during the night. 

“Uh, yes. The people, Brucey. The people searches for new areas to conquer, new places to breed on. The people who leave are the aliens.” 

“No one is leaving,” Bruce says, still unsure. _It’s all in your head._

“We just did.” 

“You don’t make any sense.” 

Joker smacks his lips and smirks but doesn’t say anything to argue. 

~~

They left the area they slept on, just to not get too attached. The forest they walk in is dead, just like the rest of world appears to be. Okay, _he walks_ , Joker seems to mostly skip between pine needles and roots, while humming on a melody Bruce doesn’t recognize, with Batsy jogging right behind him. Bruce doesn’t mind, he needs some time alone to reconsider all of his life decisions. _Something_ went wrong along the way. _Oh, I don’t know, maybe because I’m with Joker of all people during the bloody zombie apocalypse_ , he thinks, frustrated. 

Supplies had been collected in a store they found near their sleep-stop. Bruce found some more canned food to bring, mostly fruit but also mushroom soup, baked beans, corn and tuna. He’s sure Joker already collected some for Batsy, but he brought three more just in case. Not that he should. He doesn’t care about the cat; he just can’t stand the whining noises it makes when it’s hungry, neither from Joker when she is. 

They met up outside of the store, Joker was leaning against the brick wall with a smoking cigarette between his lips; murmuring words to Batsy who played around with a butterfly. Joker’s blonde hair fell before his eyes that were constantly pushed away with robotic motions. Bruce had to stop and stare for a moment; digest the peaceful moment in a dying world. If he hadn’t known that that person with the scars on his face was a psychotic serial killer, he’d appreciate this. The little moments when you could just stand still and breathe for a second. He couldn’t breathe though; the calm was making his heart race worse than before. 

When Joker’s cigarette was finished half through, Bruce stopped staring and started walking again. He didn’t have to look back to know that the slightly hunched man was following him. They needed to find another shelter before dawn, preferably before sun hit rock bottom but with the pace they went in; it was just wishful thinking. 

So now, they’re walking through the forest; bending down to not get hit in the face with branches. Joker is still humming on that melody Bruce can’t recognize and Batsy is fetching flies. As he’s thinking back at how his life used to be; a rich guy with a secret, hunting a clown with a motive, he suddenly smiles at the tragic irony. This is not how it was supposed to end like. _Imagine what Batman would’ve said_. He huffs at himself. 

The trees are getting more crowded and the light is barely seeping through its leaves and pines. Joker is still visible in the dark, close enough for Bruce to keep an eye on him but also far away enough for him to not get irritated. 

“ _Will someone come, save us from this storyline of mass destruction. Will they stay when they see, what we have done just to be fr_ -“Joker’s humming suddenly stops. “Uh, Brucey?” 

“Yes?” he answers. 

“It’s a, uh, zombie horde right ahead.” 

Bruce flinches and stops; listening for the sounds of man-eating beasts. Joker’s right; the sound of growling, gurgling and teeth clapping in their broken jaws are getting closer. _Shit._ They could go back, try to find the road and run. He’s just about to signal to Joker to follow him but the Joker seemingly has other plans. He pulls out a knife with a wide grin on his face; sending competitive glances at Bruce. _Goddammit._ So he pulls out his sharp weapon as well, getting closer to the horde with silent steps. 

A quiet big zombie with an iron pipe stuck in his chest growls out loud before Joker penetrated its skull with a sharp move. That kill had a domino effect, more zombies made their ways after the giggling clown who gracefully slaughtered one by one. Bruce whistled at some of them, to distract them away from the happy man, so that he wouldn’t get too much work. He led them off a bit further into the forest, puncturing their sculls. The fell onto the ground, gurgling with rotten blood but only more came after him. 

He had to back away a bit more, to get a good swing. He couldn’t see Joker anymore, not even hear his spastic laughter echoing between the trees. But at the moment he was occupied with not getting killed. 

 

His arms are sore in its muscles from swinging the knife like crazy, but all of his zombies are dead, so he makes his way back to the madman. He can’t hear any growling from Joker’s group but neither can he hear him. It makes him frown; not because he’s worried, but because it’s weird. If the zombies are dead, Joker should’ve jumped around on the spot talking erratically of how much fun that was. But no Joker is to be seen. 

“Joker?” he calls. The forest is deadly quiet. “Are you dead?” it’s a weird question but at this moment, he can’t think of anything else. He walks a bit more until he stands in the middle of Joker’s dead bodies, looking around himself. 

It’s getting seriously dark now; the stars are starting to greet him hello. His head feels dizzy from turning around so much, spying for any clue of the clown. But the only thing there is beside him and the smelling corpses are silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where's Joker and Batsy???? DUN DUN DUUUUUUUN. 
> 
> Okay no. Listen. I tried. 
> 
> The song that Joker was humming on is this one https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QjHR0oASSfU


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce finds Joker and he's hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See now, I'm not even going to try to make the chapters longer. Look at it as me just getting to the point.

The leaves are crisp underneath his feet as he’s half jogging around the forest, searching for the Joker. There’s nothing but branches and pines. Several thoughts are crashing through his mind at once; stealing the breath out of his lungs. It’s thoughts like, _what if he’s dead_ and _isn’t this what you wanted_ and _so what_ if _he’s dead, it’s not like you should’ve stayed with him anyway_. But all of them feels so surreal going through him. They’ve only walked through the world together for a couple of days but Batman and Joker have history. It’s not just _whatever, he’s dead now, yay_ , is it? It’s more than that. 

A part of him feels responsible and he hates it. It’s not his fault that the zombie apocalypse happened, neither that he and Joker crossed ways. But there’s still a tiny part of him that’s worrying; not overly so, but it’s still there. Growing itself onto his limbs. 

He could just pretend he’s worried about the cat. Truth is he couldn’t care less of that white, furry thing. But if someone ever asked why he ran around in the forest looking for a psychotic madman that killed his girlfriend, he’d blame it on the cat. Everyone has a soft spot and even if his isn’t visible or even close to surface, people like stories about men saving cute animals. 

After what felt like hours, he’s on the edge of giving up. Until he hears a soft sound a stone’s throw away from him. At first, he’s having trouble detecting the sound as it’s not on the same level as him. So he walks towards it, further into the woods. When he ends up above a cliff, not bigger than a couple of meters high, his brows furrows. He can see the cat; her white fur is shining in pale moonlight. She’s mewing at something, buffing her head on a figure. 

He climbs down, slowly to not loose grip and handless tumble backwards. The stone cliff underneath his fingers is damp and slippery, threatening to push him down. But he manages to get down without any harm. Batsy chirps happily when he scratches her behind her ear and continue to buff her forehead against something that’s leaning against a tree. He sits down and inspects the figure with Batsy on his lap; she’s purring deeply in her chest. 

“Joker?” Bruce manages to whisper, turning Joker’s face towards his with his fingers. The madman’s dirty and bloody, eyes closed and face soft. “Hey, are you alive?” he doesn’t expect an answer but the madman’s grunting back. “Are you bit?”

“No,” Joker says and tries to stand up but huffs uncomfortably. 

“What happened?” Bruce offers help to the man, who after a couple of tries manages to stand up on two feet. Although his basically leaning all his weight on Bruce’s shoulder. 

“One of them was a bit feistier than the others. He went down with me,” he grins. He tries to walk but stops immediately, groaning irritably into Bruce’s arm. 

“Can you walk?” _Asking the stupidly obvious questions now, are we._

Joker hums. “Must’ve hit my knee or something.” He looks up at Bruce with his dirty face. “Seems like you have to carry me.” A smile breaks free on his face, sending the creeps down Bruce’s spine. He doesn’t give the Joker a piggyback ride or sweep him from the ground like dainty bride; instead he just offers Joker an arm around his waist for steady comfort. Joker hums again but doesn’t complain. Before he swings his arm around Bruce’s shoulder, he picks Batsy up from the ground who crawls into Joker’s shirt for warmth. 

 

It took them hours to find a place safe enough to rest on, as walking in a normal haze wasn’t even questionable. A dying snail would’ve walked faster than that. And that thing doesn’t have legs. And it’s dying. 

While he worked on the safety traps, Joker cooed like a mother hen to his cat and Bruce tried his hardest not to burst out in a laugh. It sounded ridiculous. When finished, he sat down in front of the Joker and watched both of them. Batsy is stroking her chin against Joker’s still dirty face, mewing happily into his ear. Still ridiculous. If the cat only knew.

Well. That is a threat out of worth since _he knows_ and yet, here he is. He groans loudly on the inside.

“We should take a look at your wound,” he says instead of hitting his head against a tree. Joker turns to him and smirks while elegantly stretching his legs toward Bruce. 

“Go ahead big boy.”

Bruce huffs and rises. In order to be able to see the wound, Joker has to actually take off his pants. It shouldn’t feel weirder than two mates cleaning each other’s bloody skin except that it is weird and he should run as fast as he can. He doesn’t though; he just waits for Joker to crawl out of the lilac pants and starts inspecting the wound.

It’s deep and dirty, coagulated blood is bubbling on top. So he takes his bottle of water and starts rinsing it, just to get a better view of what they’re dealing with. Joker must’ve gotten a sharp rock impaled into his knee since he can see the bones and how it’s cracked. It should hurt like a bitch but Joker isn’t even flinching. He cleans the wound as well as he can and patches him up with bandages. 

“Check it later, so it doesn’t get infected,” Bruce murmurs and sits down against the tree again.

“I’ve dealt with wounds before, Brucey, all I need is a couple of antibiotics.” 

They’re both quiet. Joker sighs.

“You know, if you have any, that is.”

“I don’t.”

“Well, that’s a shame.” He smiles tiredly. 

“It’s not infected though, you’ll be fine.” 

“Of course. Me, myself, I and my shining white knight.” 

Bruce couldn’t help but grin. 

 

Bruce woke up in the middle of the night with the sound of feverish huffing from his apocalypse comrade. He sat up and stared at the madman who was twisting and turning in his sleep. At first, he was thinking the clown had a nightmare; figuring the grimacing face. But then he spotted blood on the bandage. _Shit_. 

He got to his feet and sat down beside Joker. The man huffed in surprise when Bruce’s hand rested on his forehead, checking the fever. He was burning up. Joker stared up at him with tired, wet eyes and a sweaty face. 

“It’s a shame, really,” Joker murmurs, trying to giggle but it sounds more like a cat being choked. Bruce grimaces. 

“I don’t think it’s an infection,” he says as he’s changing the bandages. “It’s probably a blood poisoning.” 

Joker hums. Then he makes one of his dying cat laughs again. “Here I am with an ex rich guy from Gotham, I’ve been killing people and now I’m dying from blood poisoning. Tragic.” He pauses. “It’s like a marine soldier dying of cancer.” 

“How did you think you’d go down then?”

“Executed. Or strangled by Batman. You know, something a bit more _exciting_ than this.” 

Bruce stares down at the feverish man underneath him. The man whose head is leaning against Bruce’s chest, cuddled up into his body. He swallows. It’s tragic, as Joker said. Ironic and tragic. Just like his whole life. It just keeps getting weirder. 

“You’re not going to die,” he determines and rises to his feet. “Not on my watch.” 

Because he doesn’t think that even as Batman, he’d be able to kill the clown. Especially not like this. 

“Look at you. My new hero.” 

“You’d be surprised,” Bruce murmurs, mostly to himself but Joker’s eyes are still shining at him. Shining with fever. “Don’t you dare die before I get back. I’ll go to the store we were in, trying to find antibiotics.” He doesn’t turn back to look at Joker when he walks off because he’s not answering, he rather deal with the consequences of him being dead when he gets back. It shouldn’t matter, but it does. Because there’s a burn in his chest he can’t cool down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what Batsy looks like http://img3.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20130813220747/warriorcatsrpg/images/b/b3/ZSwanblaze.jpg


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, I've been away for a month or two and I've also been lazy. Deadlines isn't my thing, okay. Don't tell me what to do.  
> But you should. I'm a trashy worm.
> 
> Anyway, here it is. Enjoyyyyy.

It takes him a little bit less than a day to fetch the antibiotics. On the way he spotted a couple of zombies he had to hide from, when that didn’t work and they were only seconds from serving him as a main course, he ran. Fleeing for his life for the second time during the last year. The first time he didn’t have to run, but he did because he couldn’t stand to see the city burn anymore. This time he could just run and never turn back, but he won’t. 

He found a bottle in the store they were in. It was hard to find in the dim light and rummaged area, but when the bottle just stood there in front of him with a shimmering halo around it and angelic music in the background; he wondered what kind of drugs he had been taking.

Walking back felt life draining, the life was sucked out of his lungs and he was walking on spare fuels. If that even was possible in his state. And since he probably fainted out of exhaustion two times, there’s no energy left in his body. But he keeps walking with the thought that he’s on an important mission. He could save a life. It’s been a while since he did that, if not his own. 

A familiar sensation rose in his chest but he ignored it. It could be too late, no need to celebrate or feel pride this early. 

Crickets are quirking around him when he walks with heavy steps through the forest again; getting closer and closer to Joker. It’s hollowly dark, as if the darkness never ended; playing with his tired mind. He’s always hallucinating when he’s too tired to barely function and they get more reliable when he accepts them and sweeps with. He’s close to doing just that when Rachel is in front of him. Her wailing yelps punctures through his skull and her sad eyes are drooping with disappointed tears. 

“I’m sorry, Rachel”, he pleads, reaching out to touch her but she dodges his touch. 

“It doesn’t matter what you are but with _him_ you’re nothing but a monster.”

“I know”, he whispers and flinches at her angry eyes. 

“What are you doing with him, Bruce? Why aren’t you running?”

“I can’t, baby, he’s dying.” 

“He _killed me_ ”, Rachel wails, still with fury and tears. “Let him die. He deserves it.” Bruce nods slowly. She’s probably right, of course she is. But he can’t run. It’s already too late to dodge this issue. 

“I know and I’m so sorry, but I won’t run. You’re dead, Alfred is dead and I’ve got no one. Please forgive me. Please”, his pleads are merely a whisper into the darkness but as her expression changes into a twisted grimace she gets closer to him with a loud scream coming out of her mouth. She’s just about to strangle him when another voice is being heard in front of him. 

“Who are you talking to?”

He blinks a few times to wash away his hallucinations of Rachel and stares down at Joker who looks at him with an amused expression. His eyelids are heavy above the eyes, face glistering with cold sweat and he’s probably as hot as the fire. Bruce sighs in relief of Joker still being alive, no matter what Rachel thought of it. He sits down next to Joker with his backpack between his legs, searching through it. Before he opens the can to have Joker swallow some down, he puts the back of his hand on Joker’s forehead, not sure of what he expected. There is no surprise that Joker is burning up. 

The madman is looking at him with damp eyes, observing without talking. Following every move he makes. He only opens his mouth when Bruce picks two pills out of the can, swallowing them dry. At least he’ll have a better chance of surviving now. But that thought doesn’t stop Bruce’s heart from thumping hard in his chest when meeting Joker’s feverish gaze, instead it’s roaring its beats with a heavy force. Making him dizzy and almost unable to talk. 

“Who’s dead?” Joker rasps to him, voice thick and dense. Bruce swallows and looks away, still with Joker’s gaze burning into his temple. 

“It doesn’t matter”, he murmurs and looks down at his hands. Guilt creeping inside his abdomen. He turns to Joker again and notices that they’re sitting way too close but he doesn’t move. Instead, he moves closer and receives an unreadable expression from the madman. Their arms are pressed together and thighs are touching, Joker’s fevered heat is licking itself onto Bruce’s limbs. He can almost feel Joker’s heartrate into the night and it’s slow. Too slow. 

He nudges at Joker’s elbow with his, as if his made up sign language will be understandable. Another look from the fevered man beside him before he takes the hint and leans his head on Bruce’s shoulder. With a deep sigh, Joker relaxes and nuzzles his head into the hollow of where shoulder becomes throat. 

Heart still thumping painfully hard, Bruce fetches Joker’s sleeve between his fingers and twines it as Joker slumps more and more. He doesn’t dare to look if he’s falling asleep or dying as the minutes pass. 

“If you survive the night”, Bruce whispers into Joker’s hair. “I’ll tell you everything.” 

 

**

 

He awakes from the smell of rot catching his nose and he almost gags. But as a gurgling sound behind him is roaming closer he’s quickly on his feet to stab it. The zombie gets closer and closer, its arms out for trying to catch him. Behind him, Batsy is hissing and mewing threateningly. He’s just about to puncture its skull when it suddenly falls down in front of him. He stares at it for a second with confusion but when Joker steps out behind a tree with a wide grin he puts two and two together. 

The madman in front of him is looking less feverish than last night, still a bit of a cold sweat on his face and bloodshot eyes but other than that, he’s looking fine. 

“You should rest your leg”, Bruce points out to the limping man. “And wait until you get better.”

“I did my waiting”, Joker exclaims. “Twelve years of it. In Azkaban.” 

Bruce looks at him in confusion.

“Oh my God Brucey, haven’t you watched Harry Potter?” 

“Must’ve missed that”, Bruce says. Joker deadpans at him. “I still think you should rest, whether you’re in Alcatraz or not.”

“Azkaban, Bruce, wrong movie.” 

“Whatever.” He points down at the ground. “Rest.” 

“Okay mum.” 

Bruce holds back a grin and feeds Batsy the rest of the food from a can. Chicken, he reads on it before throwing it silently into the forest. Probably tastes like shit. He eats creamy corn with a plastic fork instead of tasting the cat food, with his back turned to Joker. He doesn’t know if it’s his brain that hadn’t registered the fact that Joker is alive or that it’s still half asleep, but he doesn’t dare to look at him. In case it’s all in his imagination. Like Rachel is; a hypnotic hallucination. 

He plucks a thick stick from the ground when he’s finished and starts carving it with his knife, just to have something to do. With luck, it could look like something marvelous; something that people back in the days would admire because who carves sticks nowadays? Or it’ll just look like a dick, because he sucks at carving and he doesn’t know why he’s doing it. 

Perhaps the intense situation with Joker almost dying; could still be dying if he didn’t rest and noises from the dead every night. It fucked up with his head, clearly. _So_ , perhaps with all of that plus barely any food and water, makes him do crazy things and weigh things up that had been crazy and mentally broken before. Crazy in this new life is hallucinating about your ex that’s been dead in more than two years. And carving dick-sticks that isn’t supposed to be dicks. 

Or he’s just an idiot that seems more stupid with a bad explanation. 

He sighs and puts the half-finished stick on his backpack.

“Should we stay here or move to another place?” he asks the madman who almost fell asleep and nods his head brutally by the sudden sound of Bruce’s voice. He’s groaning and rubs his neck from the force of the nod and shrugs his shoulders.

“You call the shots.” 

Bruce hesitates. At first, he had a hard time realizing that Joker is, in fact, alive and not dead. So his head is spinning violently by the sleepy face a few meters away from him. Parts of him want to crouch by Joker’s body and touch the face to be absolutely sure. But most parts of him are stronger and keep his shit together to not embarrass himself. Because he can’t be crazy right now; that would get him killed.

Second, he glances down at Joker’s knee; his pants are uneven above the bandage. It’s shaking a bit from having no pressure on. Sure, he was up and walking in the morning; killing a dead and Lord knows what. But blood poisoning doesn’t go away over a night and the knee was cracked so he must be in pain. 

He shakes his head. “We stay.” 

“Sir, yes sir”, Joker mumbles with his eyes closed, leaning heavily against the tree. 

He fell asleep only seconds later. 

 

**

 

The night roamed over them in what felt like only minutes. He is keeping guard from the smelling dead and entertains Batsy as her owner is fighting the blood poisoning. He flicks a leaf tied to a piece of string at her, fighting a fond smile as she with a shrieking mew attacked the leaf, killing it with the back of her paws. But he fails when she skips around on the spot, catching it like a fox, huffing and squeaking silently. 

He’s surprised she hadn’t escaped by now. The smells of rot and the unsure life they’re forced to live must be exhausting for a cat that can hear every noise and can’t communicate with them. But on the other hand, what else does she know than danger? Joker must’ve picked her up when she was just a white, long-furred kitten, and it’s _Joker_ that’s her owner. What’s not dangerous around him? 

She squawks at him, staring through his skin and bones and flicks her tail back and forth. Her fur is vibrating as the soft wind passes by and the long whiskers moves as if she senses something. He looks around to spy around, in case an enemy is close by. But he, with his human eyes, can’t see anything. He looks at Batsy again; she keeps staring at him with an intense gaze and reaches out to her to pat her behind her ears.

And then she attacks his hand. It went from being still and calm, to blood pouring down on the ground. He can’t see the wound from her bite between the thick, red liquid but he can tell from the throbbing pain that it’s deep. He tries to stop it from bleeding all over himself but his shirt is already bloody. 

“Shit”, he curses under his breath and stands up to fetch some band aid. He cleans the wound with water but it doesn’t stop the bleeding; it just makes him hiss in pain. He fumbles with the bandage, almost dropping it to the ground but someone behind him catches it in the last second. With a quick motion of his neck, he turns around and meets eyes with Joker who tilts his head at him. 

“Sit”, he orders and gestures at the ground in front of the fire. Bruce obeys and slumps down; clasping his arms around his legs. Joker reaches out at him. “Your hand.” Bruce puts his hand in Joker’s palm, his blood flowing down. Joker takes care of his wound while humming on another song Bruce don’t recognize. Bruce can’t stop looking at the man in front of him with his dirty blonde hair tucked in a messy bun. The scars are barely visible in the shadows but a faint sight of uneven skin on his cheeks is noticeable whenever he tilts his head to another side. His fingers are warm around Bruce’s right hand and they work with the cleaning carefully, plastering the band aid steadily but not too hard on his skin. 

“What happened?” Joker asks a small moment later, still tending the abused skin. 

“She bit me”, Bruce answers with a huff, embarrassed that he hurt himself pretty badly because of a fairytale-looking cat. But Joker doesn’t look like he’s about to laugh at him. 

“That’s strange”, he says instead. “I only trained her to attack enemies.” 

Bruce is still. Changing his looking expression to full out staring, he gapes a little. “You _trained_ her?” He can’t help but feel slightly skeptical. Even if it’s been almost two years, how did Joker have time to train a cat between murders? 

“How else could I have kept her this long, hm?” He smirks. “So what did you do? Did you, uh, have any bad thoughts?” 

“Nothing worse than usual”, Bruce murmurs, looking away. It’s pretty smart having a trained cat to attack people who want to harm you. With dogs, the owner always gets blamed when someone’s face had been bit off but with a cat it’s different. A cat isn’t trained in the same way dogs are, at least not usually. Who do you blame when a cat has been scratching your face or biting the tender flesh on your thumb? The victim, because he was stupid enough to piss a cat off. 

He’s not sure if Joker thought like that when he bought (Bruce is certain he stole her though) the cat, or if he simply just chose her because she’s cute. A good company who’ll always love you if you just feed it. 

“Apocalypses change you”, Joker says with a small smile. 

“How would you know?” Bruce raises an eyebrow, trying not to smile back. 

“I don’t. But I’ve seen enough movies about the end of the world to know misery when it’s right in front of me.” 

Bruce is certain he’s not talking about movies right now. But he doesn’t want the psychopath to be his therapist anyway. “How did you have time?” he suddenly snaps; eyes widening when he realized what he had just said. They hadn’t talked about Gotham involving the chaotic murders. 

Joker gives him a look and giggles but he just shakes his head, not answering the question. Instead he continues with the bandage; holding Bruce’s hand gently in his, carefully bandaging the wounded thumb. It feels more comfortable than it should, Bruce realizes when he sighs and leans his head against the tree. The warmth from Joker’s fingers against his cold hand is sending electricity into his nerves, just like it usually does when someone touches your sensitive skin. But it’s not quite the same, is it? Rachel made him feel like a big giant butterfly sap; like a giggling school boy. Nothing about this is sappy or stomach butterflies morphing together into a single one. Instead, it’s electrifying; a dangerous heat around them. Confusion and anger mixed together creates something painful and lethal. 

Bruce swallows down the burn in his throat; the hellfire from all the rage and catastrophe in his life. Losing his temper now would only bring more problems to the surface. Even if Joker was accepting Batman’s punches in the interrogation room two years ago, and didn’t put up a fight to get away, Bruce is sure that Joker’s at least as strong as he is, if not more. The secrets didn’t only hide beneath the makeup, his whole attribute have been placed underneath a layer of crazy. 

There is no doubt that the Joker that was still is to this day, but perhaps changing from living, screaming humans to dead, gurgling zombies took away some of the old. When his blue eyes turns sparkling orange from the reflection of the fire, can Bruce see the dangerous madman that killed all those people. 

Instead of giving in to the electrical sensation from Joker’s fingers on his own, to embrace it into a deadly dance, he swats his hand away when Joker’s finished. Joker still looking at him with _that_ look, mouth quirked into an amused grin, but he’s not complaining from the loss of scintillation. Perhaps he didn’t feel the same mortal illness that lay upon them like a thick, black mist. Or he did, but didn’t respond to Bruce’s sudden change of gaze. The hate rummaged on the inside of his organs with a feel of corrupted ashes from the past; the ghost of everything that was. It was never perfect; he was never a hundred percent happy, but everything was better than being trapped in a forest with the killer of his lover, childhood- and best friend. 

Suddenly he feels suffocated. The air in his lungs is being sucked out and its walls are closing in. Making him dizzy; anxiety swelling to its rupture point, almost exploding. As his joints are starting to tremble violently, he packs everything together. He needs to leave, needs to walk away; whether Joker is following him or not. He has to just walk to set his anxiety free so that it won’t push him into a severe panic attack. 

“We’re leaving”, he mumbles to Joker who looks at him with a furrowed expression. “Pack your things.”

“Now?” Joker rises to his feet, groaning a bit when putting pressure on the knee. He limps unevenly to fetch his stuff and collect Batsy from her deep slumber. “It’s the middle of the night.” But he obeys to Bruce’s sudden want to change the environment. Joker kills the fire with his shoe, stomping it until nothing but particles of glowing ash swirls around him. 

As soon as Joker’s done, Bruce starts walking; not waiting up for the struggling man behind him. Like a broken rubber band, he shoots out in the dark wilderness. 

 

**

 

He didn’t stop walking, not even for the hunger burning in his stomach, not for the bladder almost exploding, not for a single thing. He saw Rachel around him, wailing in his ear about how he should just pull the trigger at Joker right here right now. It’s been raining for hours, without his notice; the leafs are soaking and so is his clothes. Drained with water, it feels heavy to walk. But he keeps going, to nothingness, away from the anxiety that’s thumping in his body. The panic attack almost taking over his actions, but he won’t let it. 

He hears _him_ stumble behind him, not how long back but he can hear sticks break underneath heavy steps. The thumping sound becomes explosion in his ears; breaking his skull. It’s annoying the living hell out of him but most of all, he’s disappointed. In himself, firstly but also a bit of his disappointment is of Joker. How does someone spend a lot of time trying to figure out who Batman is, and then when the world is going to shit, still doesn’t know? All the murders for nothing. Nothing but pure terror and chaos over the town he grew up in. Perhaps it’s what Alfred told him; some men just want to watch the world burn. 

Joker never really wanted to know who Batman was. At first, it was a game to see how easy he’d break but when nothing happened, he was happy with the way it was. No hidden face was revealed and Joker could keep on killing, just the way he likes it. Bruce isn’t surprised now that he understood how it really was planning out. But he isn’t relieved either; on the opposite, he’s feeling heavier on the inside. He wishes that Joker would’ve kept going, to find out who hid behind the mask, so that none of his threats would’ve turned out to just be a part of a sick game. A way for him to keep the fear up and keep Bruce in his net of mind play. 

He wishes that Joker would’ve kept going because then maybe he wouldn’t stay with him. But now, now that the madman is done playing, Bruce will stay. He’s done regretting his decisions, this is his new life, whether it’s with the man who killed Rachel or not. Let bygones be bygones, like the wise say. Although, the feeling will continue to taunt him to a hauntings end; never fade once he accepted the new beginning, just keep growing in his brain. But it’s okay. He’s dealt with unwanted thoughts before, what’s so different this time? 

He keeps walking through open fields of old wheat that’s not taken care of anymore. Legs burning and heart thumping roughly in his chest. Mouth dry; no water left. It doesn’t matter. He needs to walk until his mind is free from anxiety for at least a couple of hours. Or less; that doesn’t matter either, as long as he can breathe without the feeling of having your lungs replaced with sharp but heavy rock, he’ll take it. He’ll take anything over this sensation. 

He’ll even take the silent steps behind him, the ones that don’t fit well in his ears. They’re sort of lazy, dragging itself closer to him. At first, he thought he imagined it. It sounded so far off, too surreal. It didn’t sound like a man-eating monster or a wild animal. But then, when turning around to call for Joker to hurry up, he stood face to face with a gun barrel; threateningly close to his eyes. Joker was nowhere to be seen. He just stares into the deadly darkness in the barrel, turning into giddy twists. _He’s so thirsty_. 

“Don’t fucking move”, a voice says to him with a dark rasp. Where is the madman when you need him? Bruce can’t see him anywhere, just the unknown man with his gun and miles of golden wheat. His head is spinning worse than ever. A pang of worry shooting through his chest; _where the fuck is he?!_. The man scoots closer to him, eyes burning with rage. But Bruce doesn’t hear what he’s saying through chapped lips, before hitting dead end in the spins. 

“Sorry”, he murmurs before hitting ground. He didn’t apologize to the surprised man in front of him who immideately screams into his ear, wondering what the hell is wrong with him and searching for possible bites. No, he apologized to his scarred companion who is nowhere to be seen again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got plans. I do. I just don't know if I'll be able to proceed with those plans. If they're too complicated for little me or just too much?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit short... sorry about that. I'll try to make the next longer (or I should just stop believe that I ever will because I probably won't, heh). 
> 
> Gahhh, and thanks for all the nice comments on the prev chap. You're all making me so happy.

The sun is burning into his sensitive skin; sweat bubbling on the surface. It’s like a thousand needles stuck into his brain and sand chapped on the walls in his throat. Slowly dying into the world’s end, hanging by the wrists from the ceiling. Joints rubbing painfully against metallic cuffs and feet barely reaching down to the floor beneath him, it’s difficult to breath he registers. Why couldn’t he have died a normal, zombie apocalypse death? _It’s like a marine soldier dying of cancer_. 

Bruce knows he’s alone in the small space between cement walls but he can still hear things. Small voices at the tip of his ear with whispers through his neglected mind. It doesn’t give him any refreshed anxiety or tremendous panic attacks with hearing things that aren’t there. On the opposite, it comforts him in a way he had never felt before. Calming his tense muscles like a slow, fingertip massage and easing the thumping inside his head. It doesn’t bother him even though he know it _should_ because every decision he’s made this near past has been wrong. So wrong it started feeling right. 

Hanging by the wrists with handcuffs that are making him bleed in a room where he probably will die, makes him realize a lot of things about himself. He’s not as broken as he used to be. The apocalypse made him stronger mentally in a way his past life would not be able to; his Batman life ripped open so many old wounds that he thought they were impossible to sew together again. But here he is now with a stronger mentality than ever and he’s _dying_. A great way to accept your death is to know that you’re not pathetic. 

A part of what made him stronger knows that he is able to survive on his own. A full year was he out in the wilderness, _surviving_ with only himself to count on. Until he, of course, almost fucked up. That’s the other part of his self-admitting strength; Joker. No matter how much it made him cringe on the inside realizing that the scarred man owns parts of his growth. Because that man is also a part of what he’s trying to forget, or more likely to move on from. 

The final part of knowing that he’s not who he used to be is being in this room; this burning madness of slow torture. The naked walls absorb all of his secrets and silent screams and the ceiling is withering from his attempts of breaking free. But they’re not judging him as a shadow creeps in his imagination; a hallucination so vivid he almost wants to cry. It started off as a whisper, longingly tempting his inner obsession; humming down his spine into the core of his heart. Icy trembles of strong hands started to become a form around his throat, stroking his skin dangerously gentle. 

Swallowing down dry air, Bruce follows his imagination through the room, lips parted in confusion. Since his previous hallucinations have been of a lady in silk, the love of his life crying in his ears; he was struck with sudden annoyance and fear. Annoyance because a component of his regular hallucination is the feeling of guilt, loss and heartbreak. Fear because that’s exactly what he’s feeling right now; watching his imagined figure darting competitive looks at him, smiling big with the whole face. Scars looking impossibly wide the closer the madman gets. 

Bruce swallows again. He feels betrayed by his own mind. Because of the guilt, the loss and the heartbreak; how _dare he_ imagine Rachel’s killer instead of Rachel herself when he’s about to die. Why isn’t she in his mind when the last hours of his life is slipping away faster than ever? His imaginative Joker roams closer, bodies so closed that he can almost imagine the heat between them. And he just knows. He just realizes it when Joker gives him _that_ look and Bruce’s whole body is trembling fearfully. He’s about to die and Joker’s in his head, not Rachel because Rachel doesn’t matter anymore. Rachel doesn’t matter because she’d dead but Joker’s not. He feels the lethal loss in him and knows that nothing of his old life is important because it’s all dead and gone. Rachel is dead, Alfred is dead and Batman is most definitely dead as well. 

His hallucination is still roaming around in the sunbaked room; the floor vibrating with heat and Bruce follows it. Eyes damp with warmth, he can barely keep his head up anymore. But Joker is humming on the unknown songs again, skipping around in circles with a smug grin on his face. He isn’t affected by the sunny cell; he isn’t even a tiny bit sweaty nor owns a hidden frown. Bruce can feel his body relax into the radiant atmosphere that sparkles around them; calm by the most dangerous path he’s ever chosen to walk on. But in this moment of self-admittance, he couldn’t care less if it was the queen of Great Britain or David Parker Ray that helped him shatter his wall of guilt. Since he’s dying, he’s got nothing left to loose. 

He slips into a shallow slumber; body not strong enough to wake up completely. With Joker still dancing around him, not saying a single word to get the attention fully on him (but knowing he has it anyway), Bruce falls asleep not knowing if he’ll ever wake up again. 

 

**

 

But he does; ice cold water is splashing his face and he wakes up with a violent jolt. Blinking forcefully to get the water out of his eyes but letting some of it enter his dry mouth to swallow it down. With a blurry vision, he watches the faded form that has the bucket get closer to him. And as the tension from the chains holding his body up is being released with a click, he falls down on the floor; sight still blurry and head spinning worse than being trapped in a tornado. He tries to talk but is interrupted by a piece of clothing tucked in his mouth. 

There are two people with him now, one bigger than the other and they haul him out of the room. His feet are motionlessly dragging behind him as the big men are holding a tight grip around his arms. He’s fine with not walking on his own though, it’s better not to complain. 

They drag him to a darker room with more breathable air and much fresher atmosphere. He takes several deep breaths; you never know when you’ll be able to next time. As they push him down on the cold cement floor and walk away from his still body, he sighs onto the concrete. The damp texture cools his heated body down to normal temperature and he hasn’t felt more grateful in his entire life. It’s the small moments of hope that keeps him going through his new life of unknown. 

There’s a movement above him, rustling noises of metal on metal, screeching sharply in his ears but he doesn’t look up to track it. He lets his fingers dance upon the floor and absorb the chill; get ready for whatever’s to come as much as he can with a numb body. He’s never ever really been off guard since he always used to be more of a physical rather than mental kind of person; his body reacting to sudden movements faster than an average human being. Or even a change of direction in the wind can cause his body to flex in reaction. So this stillness isn’t because he’s given up to the uncertainty in the air, putting his guard down to be swiped off his feet. This is him resting his muscles in case they needs to be used; he’s still listening to the sounds and the vibrating that goes through the ground of heavy footsteps circling around him. The clothing is being ripped out of his mouth, allowing him to take even deeper breaths. And perhaps talk. 

“We have an offer to provide to you, if you’re conscious enough to listen to what I have to say that is”, a low gruff speaks to Bruce. He holds back a snort, _I’m conscious alright._ “When my boy found you out on the field he was about to shoot you since you looked like just another biter, but getting closer he realized that you ain’t. We couldn’t find a single bite on you so we took you in. Chaining you up just in case since you looked pretty beat up coming in here, unconscious and almost dead. We saved your ass, trying to find supplies.” Bruce is almost certain he understands where this man is going with his speech and he has to bite his lip to not groan at the stupidity. “You owe us one, got it?” 

A small laugh slips through his chapped lips, still not facing the men but grinning tiredly onto the concrete. Three, probably, big men serving a braindead purpose in the new era of humanity, not trying to understand that the past of dominance and the future of submissive balance it out in an even now. There is no us against them momentum in this life. But his nerved voice hints a breath of hesitation and that voice probably belongs to someone who’s been underneath a greater force his entire life; pushing everything he’s got to its limit now that he can. But Bruce doesn’t feel persuaded by the man’s former rage bubbling to the surface, even if he can see himself in it. 

“So, just because I was dying and you took advantage of that, I owe you?” he chuckles, taunting the men above him. He sort of understands their fury, their inner dominance that’s been pushed to its limit and cast on a less valuable piece. He understands it’s hard to grasp the idea of living in a world with no one to tell you how to behave, since he himself can’t let loose of the control he’s used of having just yet. The control of dominance showing that you’re seeing yourself of being worth more than someone who embraced the apocalypse ending far too well. It’s hard to let your grip around the rules falter, since you’ll never really know if it’ll work without them. 

“Listen, punk, we made a great deal of keeping you alive since. Either you take the offer or we’ll let you become what you were intended to be in the first place.” 

Bruce isn’t really following what he means by that. But it doesn’t matter; the threat in the gruffer man’s voice is enough. He sighs again, not as relieving as the first time but still not as irritably as he wished for. It sounded more like a choke; not an ‘I fear you’ kind of strangle in his throat, but more of an ‘I understand’ even if he didn’t. It was another one of those moments where his body understood more than his mind and _that_ frightened him. 

He stands up; body still a bit numb from previous events and the balance was hard to even out on the ground. The men looks at him with their angry faces which mostly are covered in thick, tussled beard; big brows furrowed in skepticism. They’re dressed in lumberjack clothes, looking far too irritably macho for it to be justified and far too stereotypical to be funny. These three men are the definition of people who will forever dwell in the past and take what they want from weaker. In this situation, Bruce is most definitely weaker since he can’t even stand up straight like a fellow man. 

“And what is this offer you’re talking about?” Bruce heaves a breath into his lungs, preparing for the worst. 

“You work with us, like a fellow companion. Build this place up; make it suitable for a living. We got a family, starving children. There is caretakers, women handling the kids, they won’t disturb. You help us, we become a group. Surviving, no need to be alone out there anymore.” 

It’s a good offer for someone who isn’t as critical as Bruce. He looks around in the room they’re standing in; it has the same construction as the room he was in for a day or two, with cement everything and bars on the window. A prison. It’s a great way to escape the wildlife outside iron bars, the flesh-eating monsters that are hiding around every corner. But he is, in fact, critical to new surroundings. It’s tempting to take the offer, to be a part of a group and not strut around in nothingness. But something in the man’s words doesn’t hit right in his mind. And he wasn’t alone out there. 

“Thanks for the offer but I have to decline”, Bruce admits trying to smile to waver the uncertain emotions he feels. He doesn’t want the men to think he distrusts them, even if he does. 

“But why? My boy found you out there alone, nearly dead. How are you to survive on your own again?” The man has this grim fury in his eyes, clearly not understanding how Bruce can decline such valuable offer. 

“I’ll manage”, Bruce cuts short. “Thanks for everything but I have to go.” His instincts are telling him to run; to break through whatever obstacle there is to come and hit if he needs to, but his mind is smarter than that. Hitting first, thinking later would only bring much more drama to surface. His instincts are also telling him to flee as fast as he can manage, away from everything there is. But he can’t rely on them now, since he has to find Joker, whether it’s socially acceptable or not. It’s easy to give into the thrumming in his chest while thinking about the scarred man, since he’s made it easier to accept the new when he’s changed. Bruce doesn’t believe that Joker’s new attribute is permanent, it’s more likely a masquerade but it’s the only living thing he’s got left. He needs to stick to his sanity as long as he can and to be able to do that, he can’t be alone. But being with a group of unknown people won’t help to ease his paranoia the slightest. He needs something familiar and Joker is the only familiar piece left in his life. 

“We can’t let you do that”, the biggest man sighs. “I told you, either you take the offer or you’ll end up the way we planned on you in the first place. You see, when we took you in we had a debate. More people wished for you to become one of ours because you’re well built, you’re strong once you’ve had some water and food in your system. But the other part wanted you to…. Well, become food. We’re starving and you’re the first eatable flesh to come across our land.” 

Bruce’s stomach is suddenly recoiling with disgust when the man in front of him spoke of him as food as it wasn’t a big deal at all. Fine, the apocalypse is upon them and the human drive to survive is strong but _eating_ is not surviving the world’s end. That’s giving up. That’s knowing that there’s no humanity left whatsoever and who are you then fighting for, really? People or the zombies? 

“That’s stepping the line, don’t you think?” Bruce hisses, muscles twitching with fury. “I’ll help you hunt for animals or supplies, but you’re not getting a bite of this body.” 

“Either you become us or you become scrambles in our digestive system, boy. This or nothing.” 

Bruce shakes his head, not knowing what to say. Of course he doesn’t want to become lumberjack food but he needs to be out. The wild has made him phobic of suffocating places with walls that seems to roll closer and closer to each other. He needs to be out and breathe fresh air and camp out underneath pine trees. He needs to be out to find his only safe digit left in his puzzled mind. 

Two of the lumberjack’s took his negative head roll as a no and came for him. But Bruce’s body was ready for a fight anyway and the surprised looks on their faces as he hit back with full force and more experience than neither of those, put some fuel in his joints. His fist crammed into one of the men’s face, making him splutter of his own blood flowing. A few trained hits and kicks and the man was down, groaning in embarrassing pain on the ground. One more to go, Bruce attacked the second biggest one with aggressive punches where he knew would take damage the worst. One knuckled punch on the liver, making the man bend doubled and cracked his nose with the force to Bruce’s knee. The lumberjack’s vision got blurry with all the bruises and blood covering his eyes and Bruce took advantage of that by tripping him down on the ground beside his groaning friend, taking a fistful of the tussled hair and ravaged his face onto the floor a couple of times until he was still. 

He heaved air into his lungs when turning to the biggest one of them who hadn’t moved an inch to help his friends. Their eyes locked and Bruce didn’t hide any of his rage. The older lumberjack nodded slowly, humming into his fingers and investigated the bodies from where he stood. 

“I’m disappointed you won’t take my offer. You’d make a good fighter out of my other boys. It’s too bad we have to eat you”, the man said slowly, still watching the bodies groaning in pain. 

“I’m _not_ your food”, Bruce spat, feeling irritated by the man’s ignorance. “I’ll fight every single one of you if I have to.”

“Of course you are”, the man smirked and waved and something behind Bruce’s back. He didn’t have time to react until he got hit in the head with something heavy. The surprise hit got him falling on the floor but he wasn’t unconscious but only yet, if he understood the man’s voice correct. “But I’m not much of a fighter.” He’s still not giving up on the thought that he’ll make it out, but the possibility is less now than he wished for. How the _hell_ could he let his guard down? As he got kicked a couple of times on his sides, huffing and groaning in pain, a defenseless and vital thought entered his mind. What if Joker didn’t make it to the wheat plantation? What if he’s still in the forest and Bruce only imagined his slow footsteps behind him? He could be dead, for all he knows. The blood poisoning might have taken the rest of him. 

It’s exactly those kinds of thoughts that are twisting his hope into despair and the kind of feel that will make him stop fighting. He has to fight, to not become food. _Joker is not dead_ , he thinks to himself, _he’s not dead because his death would involve much more excitement and less tragic irony. He won’t be another one of those soldiers dying of cancer. He’s a psychotic clown who’ll die by the hands of Batman, if not at all. Joker is NOT dead._

It helps pushing his hope to its limits, but it doesn’t prevent the metallic object to hit his head one more time and send his vision into blurry darkness.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short one I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry please don't slaughter me.
> 
> I'm gonna try to make the next one longer, promise.

_Squirrel!_ Head shot up from the ground, eyes staring at the small animal nibbling on a cone in front of him. It’s big, black eyes haven’t seen him looking yet; doesn’t move away when he slowly, slowly is crawling closer to it. His hunger is ravaging in his stomach, making his chest swell in an uncomfortable way. Getting closer and closer to his target, the squirrel is still not aware of his hunt; it’s still preoccupied with filling its stomach. 

He’s as silent as a beast finding its target, merely leaving anything but a whisper of sound. _So close now…_

He’s just about to grab the defenseless animal with his bare hands until Batsy shoots out of nowhere and scares the squirrel away.

“Aurghhh, no!” Joker groans and falls to the ground again; burying his face in the dirt. “Bad kitten.” Batsy just quirks at him, stroking her chin against his head. He rolls over to his back to let her stomp on his chest with her paws. She’s looking awfully proud of herself, _as if she’s accomplished something_. “You are _not_ helping”, Joker tells her. “Did you see that, Brucey?” he calls into the woods and expects an uncaring grunt from the taller man. 

Nothing.

He grunts in the back of his throat, spinning around onto his stomach. “Bruce?” he calls, scratching his forehead bitterly. Looking around, humming low into the empty atmosphere. At first he just lay there, making distant clicking noises with his mouth; a mix of licking his lips, the wet monotone sound and tapping his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Grinding his teeth against each other, making Batsy wail annoyingly as the noise screeches in both their ears. 

A faint brisk of wind soothing over the rustling leafs, making them tumble around him, but other than that it’s dead silent. 

“Bruce?” he calls again, waiting for an answer. 

A small part of him is expecting Bruce to walk come out behind a big tree, shouting “surprise!” with a big smile on his face. But then he remembers that Bruce was more of the ‘dwelling in the past’ kind of guy and jokes weren’t close to his heart. Not even cracked a smile behind that serious frown. 

He wished he could at least hear _something_. Anything; a stick getting broke behind his back as a sign of Bruce’s eager to stab him. Even a wet, dead groan would be good, so that Joker could put him out of his misery or something. Not that he really cares what’s behind those predatory eyes; he doesn’t care whether they’re in pain, happy or sad. This new world is a _blessing_. He can kill whichever zombie he wants without anyone losing their chin in surprise or fear. It doesn’t add up to a person’s last squeal when they die, but it’ll do. 

Suddenly, a flare of anger shoots through him as he tumbles around to lie on his back, staring up at the big, fluffy clouds. He’s been, non-literally, backstabbed; left in the forest. He doesn’t mind being alone, is used to it, but there was something about Bruce that was intriguing. Just the fact that he can’t quite put his finger on what it was makes him even more pissed. 

Fine, he’s killed people. Fine, he’s a bad person compared to everyone else. And fine, of course Mr.-I-used-to-have-it-all would ditch him but it doesn’t make any sense. Why would Bruce save him to leave him used a couple of days later? It doesn’t add up. Never _once_ did Joker harm any business man per se, no one in Wayne’s Enterprises, and he never had any intention of doing so anyway. Sort of. Well. 

Joker giggles struggled; except for Reese but he had it coming. Wanting to out Batman without his consent, he couldn’t have it. 

Okay, so maybe Bruce did have some personal issues with Joker. But that didn’t mean that he had to leave him in the middle of the forest with man-eating monsters roaming around. And his leg still hurt. 

The clouds above him are turning into look-alikes, huge formations of white fluff. He sees a dragon cuddling with a sleeping cat, a face of a person with a big nose, a poodle in profile. And a bat. It puts a half-hearted grin to his face. He lies on his back for half an hour; the bat cloud melted out in a stretched form. Batsy is lying on his chest, sleeping shallowly, nuzzling her cheek against his naked skin on the neck. His thoughts are circling unusually fast in his head, crashing into each other in a hot mess. Most of them are of Bruce, since Bruce is today’s agenda and they enter his mind with an uncomfortable tingle in his chest; both irritation and a need of confrontation. 

He knows what he has to do. Picking Batsy up, putting her in the harness but without letting her trip on the ground, he starts walking; his eyes searching the ground for clues. There are obvious ones, whole footprints of someone who hasn’t been dragging its feet behind; Bruce’s footprints. And the size fits Bruce’s foot perfectly (it’s not creepy, it’s an observation) so he follows them, no matter how long it’ll take. No matter how long Bruce has walked, he’s going to find him and make him _squeal_. 

**

He’s getting closer to a wheat field, surrounded by zombies. They haven’t heard him yet; neither smelling either him or Batsy, who’s hiding underneath his shirt. Limping on his leg, he fits quite well with the human meat chuggers. If he hadn’t been on a mission, he’d sneak upon the zombies to play a little; stab in order to wipe away some of the anger that still roams around in his body. 

His mouth is dry from not drinking in a long time, but he’s used to it so he’s capable to push that need away without getting bothered by it. Only focus on the ground underneath his feet, keeping a steady rhythm. A faintly painful flutter in his chest makes his mouth twist with annoyance and discomfort and he clears his throat. The hunger is still a ravaging fact, twisting and jolting in his nerves and it’s not as easy to ignore. It’s puncturing in him, making its need the center of attention whether he likes it or not. The wings of the starvation flutter with an itch-like ache unfurl completely and he groans. His insides feel like powdered glass but he has to keep walking, he has to keep the rhythm even if it’s broken. No matter how cripple-like he falters; almost bent forwards in stomach cramps, the road with Bruce’s footsteps are ahead and those are the only thing that matters now. 

Batsy chirps like a bird to him when she’s almost being crushed by his new walking style, and she hauls herself upwards by using her sharp claws in his chest. He snarls at her but doesn’t mind the shallow scratches with blood in them. It really doesn’t matter; he’s on a mission. 

The ground turns into wheat, golden by the bleak sunrays. By the time he’s walked at least fifty yards above thriving legumes, he’s spotted by two zombies that’s stumbling with groans behind him. From time to time is he turning around to see how close they’ve come but isn’t taking the matter in his hands. Not until he suddenly stops, staring down at the ground beneath his feet, inspecting what he sees closely. The zombies scurries up to him, trying to get a good bite out of his neck but he’s way faster and puts them down with a sharpened knife penetrated into their mushy skulls. They fall and he turns to look again, brows furrowed by the newfound trace; something has been dragged away by a newcomer. Bruce’s footsteps ended there and a pair of smaller feet met up with him. 

Joker follows the darkened area in the dust from a body being dragged with his eyes; it doesn’t end anywhere near. So he follows it, a clenching feeling in his gut; rage still dwelling on but for a different reason. It’s more of an exasperated tingle setting fire to his organs; the feeling of being _abandoned_. First, he’s going to maim the people that supposedly kidnapped Bruce. And then he’s going to maim him; wash off that shattered mind of his. Crumble the ghost of his past. Because he’s sick of Bruce’s taunting whimpers at night, his hushed calls for mercy. There will be _no_ thought of mercy left when Joker’s done with him. He’s fervent to end the worrisome frown and he’s going to indulge in it with delicious gratitude. A familiar feel rose in his chest, knocking faintly on the doors to his lungs to fill him up with nostalgia. It makes him giggle with a slight mischievous grin. 

Soon after his planning of event, the track peters out as soon as wheat turns into asphalt. But it’s not hard to realize where they’ve gone. When he looks up from the ground, shoulders hunched tiredly, a meadow of grass’ towering in front of him and on the hayfield stands a cement building. With iron bars in the windows to keep something in, he figures it’s a prison. Whatever’s inside, it’s not quiet; a few zombies are scratching the fence around the construction. He can see the blonde locks of a person behind the metallic bars. Another grin creeps upon his lips; living people are running around inside the unguarded building. Apart from five or six zombies groaning, he can just walk inside. 

But instead of doing so, he walks around the prison to the backside of it, inspecting its benefits. On the other side he finds some sort of training field; the ground covered with ashes of the dead and puddles of blood. A few heads of zombies that hadn’t been put out are gnawing their teeth at him when he gets closer. Batsy hisses underneath his shirt and waggles her tail threateningly, but he ignores her. He hums when inspecting some drawn markings of squares on the ground and chains hooked in iron loops. A boxing ring with the living dead. He’s got no use for it, but the hundred percent dead zombies with their bodies cut open and burnt ash in some of them, interests him even more. 

He hunches down by two of them, examined them, before dipping his hand in the ashes. The crispy feel sent shivers down his spine and his skin tingles below the back of his head. He paints it on the skin around his eyes and eyelids, blackening himself up as he used to do before. The murky blood from the other goes on his lips and scars. Familiarity of being patched with wicked smear, earned a well-known sound in his ears; the sound of singsongs and giggles that broke through a barrier. The part of him that’s been put away since Gotham stood up from the ground, dismissing the ticks of licking lips. But now that he’s truly in his right form, he turns to the prison again, to his mission. An ecstatic feel in his fingers, like blistered electricity; small pulses in his veins, kept jolting through as he got closer. The bloodlust ravaging worse than the hunger; if it’s not the same. Hunger for a mass of screams and chaos burning inside the walls, a lust for blood on his hands. 

Fingers tightening around the shaft of the knife and body almost shaking of excitement. He puts one steady hand on the door and pushes. Party time. _Eheheh…_

 

**

 

In the meantime, Bruce woke up from being hit in the head. He huffs in pain and massages his hands against the pain. He’s yet again left in the hot cell but not in chains this time. Another huff leaves his throat when he realizes what he’s gotten himself into. Declining a group of power-greedy men and their thirst for human meat doesn’t sit well in his need to be out. 

He sits up, ignoring the angry shouts in his head that orders him to _lay the fuck down and rest_. The walls don’t feel as burning and suffocating as earlier today (or is it yesterday?) but it’s still uncomfortable. No one likes to be a rat trapped in a cage. 

He wanders around, tapping the cement walls with his fingers as if trying to find a secret gate. But the surroundings are solid and don’t crack a millimeter underneath his hand. Not that he expected them to, but he still gets disappointed and mad. Inflamed with fury, he attacks the door with his full body, kicking and hitting, screaming all kinds of swears he’s only been thinking before. 

“Let me out!” he roars, bubbling with hate in his veins; blood boiling and he splutters. “Let me the fuck out!” They _can’t_ keep him in there nor eat him. He’s done _nothing_ to deserve such thing. Sure, he’s given up his alternate lifestyle and ended up on the same road as Joker, saving the madman’s life more than he’s saved anyone else. And yes, he’s stopped hallucinating about Rachel and seeing her in his dreams. Fine, he’s feeling a strange expression of his heart when thinking about all the things that could’ve happened to the scarred psychopath; the same feeling of worry. He shouldn’t have given in to the deadly calm but he did, and now he needs to get out finding him. The _only_ comfort he has left in his life is out of reach, and that comfort is the deadliest force he’s ever dealt with. But he needs it. To survive. 

The kicking and screaming is tiresome in his bones; weak from exhaustion and barely any traces of energy left in him. No water, no food. He sinks down to his knees, hitting ground hard enough to bruise and leans against the solid door with his head. Sighing shallowly, shaking with anger. He’s trying to keep steady in mind, but the way he’s been used is beyond his control. The only way to get out is to fight. 

He hears someone walking outside the door but he’s too tired to look up. Even when the door opens and he falls out, he doesn’t bother. Two men carry his almost lifeless body to a bigger room than the first. It smells damp but also meaty; a foggy steam hits him directly in the face and it’s hot enough to burn and make him gasp in pain. 

The kitchen. They brought him to the fucking kitchen. 

“Just let me go. I’ll never turn back, I won’t even _think_ of this place again.” He begs. Bruce motherfucking Wayne _begs_ them to release him. 

Their boss chuckles softly at him as the men lifted him up on a metallic table. “Oh, but we want you to think. We want us to be in your nightmares for as long as you’ll live.” 

“You’ll kill me though. You’re going to butcher me, today”, Bruce wheezes, staring into the man’s eyes. 

“True, true. Then I suppose we’ll be in your dreams for at least a couple of minutes.” He chuckles again but it’s not as soft. Bruce groans and starts counting the seconds he has left; body and mind far too weak. He can’t even move his fingers. 

He hears the clinging noises again, and this time he can detect where the sound comes from and the realization is gut twisting. Two huge butcher knifes sharpened against each other in a deafening sound, as if it’s a group of children learning how to play violin for the first time dressed in a bloodied apron. Soon enough, those knifes are going to cut into his flesh and be served as a main course. He swallows and closes his eyes. 

But a loud bang from the doors is being heard at the end of the room and the room fell in silence. Bruce didn’t dare to look up, because he could still feel the electricity from the sharpened knifes above him; tempted to rip his skin apart. But as no one spoke; only rapid breaths from all of them around him, he opened his eyes and lifted his head as much as he could. 

There, at the end of the room by the doors stood a man with smoky eyes and blood dripping down his mouth. Bruce felt another twist in his gut and wasn’t sure if it was a better one. 

“Seems like I just made it to the party”, Joker said and giggled dangerously.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't be too excited, I won't post two chapters a week. I've just wanted to write this since I started with the story, so it was just flowing really fast. And I didn't feel like waiting to post it, so here you go! You're very welcome.

Everything seemed to move in slow-motion as Joker entered the doors with a big grin on his dirty face. Bruce could only stare with a flutter in his chest as the madman sprung from where he stood, knife darting in the air, laughing. He’s still too tired to move any limbs; he can only watch the tragedy develop. One of the bigger men met up with the attack to get his throat sliced, hitting the floor with a huffed squeal and blood running down his clothes. The others try to hide behind metallic tables, to get away from the killer clown. But it’s useless because Joker won’t let them. He’s climbing the tables like a slender cat, almost running the walls on all four to get a good angle at the frightened men. 

Even if they were about to butch Bruce into filet mignon, he can’t bring himself to enjoy the view around him when one by one is being murdered. There’s shouting, begging and crying sounds hitting the walls but he can’t hear them clearly. It’s more of a buzz in his ears along with the movements in slow-motion. Like the blood flowing in his body is hissing into his brain. Perhaps he should give into the exhausted part of his mind; drift into the numb and not bother of what’s happening around him. They _did_ try to murder him, after all. 

But he can’t. It’s not in him to let murder happen. Whether it’s for bad people or not. Twisted situation, yes. Unsolvable, no. At least he hopes not. 

As Joker headed for the leader of the group, the only man that’s still standing, Bruce tried to reach out. Neither of them was looking at him, both challenging each other. Joker with his small, but sharp knife and the boss with his butcher. Bruce couldn’t reach his hand to curl his fingers around Joker’s bicep to stop him; he was too far away. But he could still work his throat to protest, as Joker took a fast sprung from the floor on the man’s back; clinging like a stubborn parasite. Arms around his neck and his knife punctured into the boss’ skin and almost dug deeper to the artery but Bruce shouted:

“No! Don’t kill him!” 

There was death around him and the air was cold as if a dozen of reapers had entered the room. He couldn’t look down on the floor and watch the lifeless and bloody figures laying there because if he did, he’d throw up or faint. It was too much and too many memories of what he fought so hard to prevent in his previous life hit the surface. They crush into his feverish mind and got mixed with the panic attacks he didn’t let happen since he got here. But he was able to swallow them down; didn’t let them be a part of the situation just yet. 

“Don’t”, he warned both the men that stared at him with disbelief. None of them could figure out who Bruce was talking to since he specifically looked at Joker but had the boss in mind too. He could see the rage in the bigger man, the frustration of not being able to crush Joker between his bare hands for what he had done to the men. 

The energy from the panic gave him enough strength to sit up on the table; one hand clutching onto the edge until the knuckles whitened. Dry fever hitting his body and mind from the lack of food and water and too much sun. 

“Get off of him”, he demanded, staring right into Joker’s bloodshot eyes. The grin hadn’t left his face but he’s not laughing and that’s progress. Bruce was careful to not move too hastily, seeing as Joker could explode any second. He slid down from the table and had to put a lot of dreading energy to even be able to stand up. Walking as far as he could without losing grip on the table’s edge, eyes darting from side to side in exhaustion. “Get off”, he hissed again and this time, Joker obeyed. Sliding off and backed a few steps, still with his knife in a tight grip in the air. He looked crazier than he ever had with the black dust around his eyes and zombie blood in a mudded grin on the face; eyes bloodshot and still a bit feverish from the blood poison. He wondered how the leg was doing but didn’t ask. Not now. 

There was a moving lump underneath Joker’s buttoned shirt that Bruce suspected was Batsy. He was surprised that he hadn’t seen the cat-lump before, but just thought that she must’ve hid perfectly well. Smart cat, after all. A shot of familiarity burned in him and a few memories from the past weeks with Joker and the cat swayed dangerously on the tip of his mind. The flutter in his chest felt deeper now, like a bloomed rose of worry had tipped over into comfort. He was furious about how the situation had turned into a palace of slaughter; a dream world for serial killers. He just wanted out, not witness several men getting killed by the hand of someone who had been doing better. At least he thought that Joker had progressed, but seeing the man now only made him realize that Joker had been a ticking time bomb, ready to explode. The aftermath of the explosion is seen now from the man’s ragged breathing and hushed giggles; fingers shaking around the knife. 

“This was very unnecessary”, Bruce said, voice harsh from all the screaming. He kept looking at Joker from behind the boss’ back, who rolled his eyes dramatically. “They didn’t have to die.” 

“Look at you, Mr. Nonchalant”, Joker sighed and tipped his head forward a bit, not breaking their eye contact. “They were going to _eat you_.” A high pitched giggle broke out of his throat and he grinned so wide Bruce thought the scars would get bigger. “Kinky, kinky people, naughty world. They had to die, I _had_ to kill them. Naughty me, naughty boy. Naughty, naughty, _naughty_.” 

“Kill him”, the boss suddenly speaks, looking at Bruce; begging with his eyes. “He’s insane, _kill him_.” 

A cascade of laughter slips out of Joker’s mouth and he’s once again on the boss’ back, ignoring Bruce’s demands. 

“Oh boy”, Joker laughs and plays with the knife on the surface on the man’s skin who tries to shake the madman off of him, but with no luck; Joker’s glued on him. Legs thrown around the man’s middle and arms tightly around his throat, knife pierced into the left cheek. “Put him in a collar and starve him.” He giggles maniacally, almost tearing up in joy. “You remind me of someone I used to know.” He leans closer to the man’s ear and whispers “I _killed_ him” that both Bruce and the boss heard. “Which is exactly what I’m gonna do to you, darling.” There was nothing that Bruce could do to prevent it from happening physically; he was too weak to battle Joker in a wrestle. And the clown didn’t listen to him. “Oh no, no, no, shush”, Joker cooed when the boss sobbed uncontrollably. “It’s gonna hurt but I’ll make it fast. Promise.” The lie glistered in his darkened eyes. 

“Joker, please”, Bruce tried but with no success. Joker shushed him to, wagging his finger at him. 

“No, no, no. Don’t worry, I’ll make this perfect. Not now, don’t worry. Not now.” He leaned into the boss again. “What’s your name, darling?”

“Marcus”, the boss huffed, holding perfectly still on the ground. He didn’t fight. 

“ _Marcus_ , mmm. Hmm, this is a circus. I am the first act, the… _lion_. Bruce is the bear, but _you…_ You are the main act, the final number.” He twists the knife into Marcus’ flesh, earning a squeak from the bigger man. “Oh, Marcus, you wanna know how I got these scars?” Joker reached for something on the side, still with the knife in Marcus’ flesh and his attention fully on the sobbing man. “I was at the town’s circus with mommy. I accidentally got away from her, lost in the crowd of people and ended up at some colorful wagons with people in them. I knocked on the door, asking if they could help me find mom. Three men with funny smiles painted on their faces took me in, promising to find my mom. But when they saw the frown on my face, they laughed and said ‘Why aren’t you smiling?’ ‘You oughta smile more.’ ‘This is a circus, _smile boy_!’. One of them put a razorblade in my mouth and… did this…” He’s giggling again with a fry pan in his hand, the object he’s been reaching for. “I found mommy later that day, and boy did she not laugh. No smile or grin, just shouting and spanking. But, Marcus, you know what I did later?” 

Marcus shook his head, sweat running down his forehead. 

“I painted a smile on her cheeks of her own blood after I killed her. _Why aren’t you smiling mommy. You oughta smile more._ ” And then he hit Marcus in the back of his head with the fry pan so that the man fell onto the floor, unconscious. “And this, Brucey”, he murmured while dragging the body out of the kitchen and into another room with more space. “This is our circus.” 

**

Bruce was sitting on the floor in the other room with his back leaning against the wall. He could barely breathe. The panic attack has taken a hold on him and it won’t let go for a long time, since he’s pushed it away so much. He wants to run away from his body but is unable to. Heart racing and it’s like the walls are closing in on him. A closeted tunnel vision; he can barely see, eyes disturbed by black spots. Someone invisible is choking him and his arms feel tingly, because he isn’t getting enough oxygen. And that’s just making him panic even more. 

He’s alone in the room with the unconscious Marcus and several dead bodies. Joker is roaming around in the prison, trying to find some gasoline to burn the bodies up with. Bruce couldn’t bother to follow, neither to pick a fight for Joker’s behavior. It’s too late to care, too late to try to save the world. 

Through the unstable vision he can sense something getting closer, something small and harmless. He doesn’t know what it is until it curls into a soft ball on his lap and strokes its cheek against his fingers. Bruce breathes out shakily to only breath in half as much as he should, fast and uneven. Batsy nibbles gently on his fingers, enough to almost make him snap out of the attack. She purrs deeply in her chest and moves from his fingers to his cheek; climbing up on his chest to reach. It’s as if she knows he’s feeling like shit and needs guidance to find the right path out. She could probably smell the anxiety that’s reeking out of his body. She licks the salty skin on his chin, mews softly to let him know that at least she’s there for him. 

Finally, he runs his fingers through her fur. With a comfortably happy sigh, she settles down on him. 

Joker got back from scavenging the area with a jerrycan in his right hand, not meeting Bruce’s gaze when entering the room. He opened the lid of the can and poured some of its contents on the dead bodies. Why he felt the need to burn the bodies instead of just putting a bullet in their hands, Bruce can’t figure out. But he won’t ask either. It’s an electrical tension between them that Bruce is unwilling to get near or investigate, in case he’ll be brought into it even more. He’s angry because of the murders and disappointed at himself for not being able to notice the bloodlust in Joker. It was _right there in front of him_ and yet he’s having a hard time getting rid of the shock. 

A soft ground escapes Marcus’ mouth but he doesn’t move from where he lays. Not conscious enough to run away, sit up or even open his eyes. Joker had played with his body a bit more before he ran away to fetch the jerrycan. Marcus’ whole body was probably bruised and he wouldn’t be able to neither sit up nor walk anymore. The damage Joker caused on the man was enough to make him paralyzed from the middle and down. Bruce didn’t bother to walk up and help him. There’s no use in doing so, Joker will probably gauge his eyes out if he tried and he needs to see. Even if he sometimes had wished that he was blind. 

Joker put away the jerrycan when the bodies were drenched in gasoline, talking in a soft, hushed voice to himself. Inspecting his artwork. In a minute, the room will smell like burnt flesh and they have to move to another place. 

“What about him?” Bruce finally asks and receives a look from the madman, pointing at Marcus who’s lying face down on the ground. 

“When I’m done with the other one, he’ll beg me to take him too”, Joker answers and shrugs. 

“You mean the bodies? They’re already dead”, Bruce says, uncertain of what Joker means. 

Joker giggles. “Not them.” He turns away from Bruce for a second, looking at something behind him that Bruce can’t see because he’s blocking the door. “Her.”

Behind him walks a smaller figure up, feathery steps on the ground. Her blonde locks are faintly gold in the afternoon sun and her skin is brightly pale. Looking like a living doll, delicate and an innocent contrast to the lumberjack men. She’s dressed in a pastel pink dress and white leggings, not suitable for the zombie apocalypse. She can’t be more than ten years old but her eyes speak tons of different stories about things that no kid should ever experience. 

There’s another twist in his gut when watching the little girl walk against the wall to hide away from Joker and his maniac giggles. It’s more painful than the others and there’s an underlying idea of what Joker’s going to do, and it scares him. But he can’t speak. 

“Daddy?” Her soft voice pierces through the dense atmosphere. Bruce has to squeeze his nails into the skin of his hand to not scream. She runs to her dad, the locks bouncing on her back. The leggings get dirty when she kneels down by Marcus. He opens his eyes for her when she calls again, looking into hers with a soft but frightened expression. 

“It’s going to be alright”, Marcus promises shallowly, empty promises entering his daughter’s ears. “Don’t worry princess, we’ll be okay.” 

“What happened to them?” she whispers, loud enough for Bruce to hear. She’s darting her wet eyes toward the dead bodies, vibrating a bit in fear. 

“Don’t look at them, look at me. Keep looking at me, Mathilda. Listen to me, it’s going to be okay, you hear?” He’s desperate to feel her relax in his arms, still lying down on the ground but holding her wrists in his bigger hands. She’s hiccupping small breaths and looks away from the dead men too watch her dad trying to be strong and brave in front of his little girl. He knows that something is going to happen, because Joker is walking distractedly around them, ticking worse than ever. “You hear?” he repeats. She nods and swallows. 

“Clever little girl, knows when to listen to daddy, hmm”, Joker murmurs and cracks his neck and back. “Tell me, darling”, he mutters, getting closer to them. “Mathilda, right?” He squats beside her and ignores Marcus’ threats as if they were just a gust of wind. She looks up at him, eyes big and full of fear, but she says nothing. “Have you ever eaten human flesh?” 

“ _Please_ , it was a mistake, we shouldn’t have-“ Marcus tries to beg for mercy but Joker interrupts with pressing a finger against his mouth.

“Shush with you, I’m trying to have a conversation with Mathilda. It’s very rude to interrupt, you naughty, naughty boy.” He turns to Mathilda again, still with his finger against Marcus’ lips, keeping him quiet throughout the talk. “Well, have you, dear?” 

“Daddy said we had to, to not starve”, Mathilda whispers in response and looks away from Joker when he starts giggling again. He stands up and walks away from them a bit. 

“I suppose it’s whatever it takes, being the apocalypse and all but- … _Eheheh_ , you’ve made a great mistake, indeed, Marcus darling.” 

Bruce could see from where he sat that Joker’s eyes weren’t even a bit friendly; there was no ounce of mercy in the two dark pupils. Even if he was laughing and smiling, his body language screamed _murder_ and those eyes held the gate of hell, darker than any pit he’d ever seen. He couldn’t move from the spot, it was as if the air had been sucked out of his lungs and he sat heavily against the wall. Batsy’s claws were struck into his skin and she breathed just as panicky as he did; shallowly, like a panic attack. 

He wanted to scream, to stand up and stop Joker from committing any more murders. But he couldn’t. He was stuck; the ground was holding him still. 

“Is it just me”, Joker said, voice raised and hands gesturing in the air dramatically. “or does it smell a bit funky in here?” He picks the jerrycan up again and takes a few daring steps toward the dad and daughter. “When was the last time you showered, Mathilda?” And then he spilled the rest of the gasoline on her, laughing through Marcus’ roars of threats and sobbing. He tried to hold his daughter in his arms but Joker snatched her away from him. She screamed and kicked her legs violently but Joker was stronger and didn’t lose his grip around her middle. “You see, I’m a guy of simple taste.” He’s shaking with laughter now and something else, something lethal that’s vibrating underneath his skin. Another time bomb ready to explode. _10…9…8…_ “I enjoy dynamite and gunpowder…” _7…6…5…_ He scrambles in his pocket for something, holding Mathilda with one arm. She’s crying big tears on her cheeks, sobs and hiccups with Marcus chanting swearwords while still trying to calm Mathilda down. Joker picks the lighter up in a _aha!_ and then wipes some of her tears away. He backs a few more steps with Mathilda unwillingly with him. _4…3…2…_ “…and gasoline!” He releases her to turn the ignition on, backs away from her and throws it at her gasoline drenched body. 

_…1._

It’s as if the whole room exploded with her flame roaring body; screams echoing with a deafening sound. Marcus yells in a high pitched voice; unable to reach his flaming daughter, screaming until his face turns blue. Joker is cramping with laughter, enjoying the view. It’s also high pitched but far too happy and psychotic. The ringing sound of _’No, Mathilda, no! I’m gonna kill you, you fucking monster, I’m gonna fucking kill you!’_ finally shook Bruce out of his paralytic mind and he shot up from the ground, ignoring Batsy’s snarl as she sprung away from him to avoid the dramatic violence. He went pass Marcus violent sobs and Mathilda’s burned body, to the clown that’s meeting his eyes with a gut-twisting welcoming. The clown dares to smile at him, big and bright, cheering him. Bruce doesn’t smile back; he pulls Joker’s body closer to him by the collar and shouts:

“You’re a _monster_ , you’re a fucking _monster_!” He’s so angry he sees red until it blackens completely. _Boom._ His fist are hitting Joker’s face over and over again, blood flowing between amused and bewildered spasms of laughter, big eyes of surprised shock as if wondering where the hell all of this came from. 

“Look at you go”, Joker huffs, still smiling brightly at Bruce, even if he’s bleeding from both mouth and nose. He doesn’t seem at all affected by the punches, just like last time Bruce hit his face. Just amused by the reaction. He looks at Bruce with a dazed expression but doesn’t fail to push himself away from Bruce’s faltered grip. It’s like all of Bruce’s frustration from the past was solved from punching the madman a couple of times in the face, at least for now. The bursts of anger are drained from him and he’s left feeling helpless and confused. “And you know the thing they have in common?” Joker asks, mentioning his three tastes. He’s heaving air into his lungs with deep motions, watching Bruce from a predatory point of view. Bruce swallows and realizes his mistake. Joker gets closer again, dominating Bruce with his strength. 

He’s being forced to sit down on the ground so that Joker can straddle his hips, cooing at his uneven breaths. He leans in and whispers the nonsense that somehow sent shivers down Bruce’s spine. “They’re cheap.” He cups Bruce’s face in his hands; skin against skin hot and sweaty and Bruce feels himself lean into the touch. “But it was never about the money, was it?” he murmurs and puts his forehead against Bruce’s to stare into his eyes further. It burns like cyanide but it’s not like it’ll stop neither of them from doing it, knowing that they’re just as desperate. “No humanity, no heroes.” Joker is pressing their bodies closer and Bruce has to work his muscles to its bursting point to not fall backwards by the weight. The madman is breathing heavily, cupping his hands harder against Bruce’s skin. As if trying to crawl inside and poison his intestines too. 

“What do you mean?” Bruce asks even if he knows exactly what Joker’s murmuring about. The madman never ceases to impress Bruce with his ways of figuring things out. He never saw this coming, but here he had it served to him on a bloody, silver-plate. 

He laughs with the blood painted inside his mouth and collides his broken lips into Bruce’s dry, like a punch into a wall, smudging red on his jaw. Marking him up, putting a brand on his skin to tell the world that he belongs to the giggling madman. He kisses with hunger clawing inside his throat, digging his fingers into Bruce’s face, leavings pots of sore red. “No justice”, he whispers, voice rough around the edges. Sinking his teeth into the sensitive spot on Bruce’s neck, feeding on his gasps, murmuring absolutions through the bruises. He scorches his body into Bruce’s, deadly heat dwelling around them. Bruce can feel his scars on his tongue on the inside of his mouth and it’s sending electrical pulses through his body and makes him groan even louder. “There is no justice. _Just us._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooooops.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this makes sense. It made sense in my head but then again... my head is pretty twisted. 
> 
> This basically turned into a poetry novel of some sort. I'm sorry if it's confusing. 
> 
> It's also a short chapter but I felt like.... I can't make it longer without ruining it sooooooooooooooo

“No technique.” The smell of burnt flesh lay heavily in the air, soaked into the skin. It’s almost unbearable, forcing heaves of dry air and gastric acid to come out of his stomach. His head is throbbing with confusion and a new kind of emotion he’s never felt before. A mixture of relief and something that’s been buried deep inside ready to explode out of his ribs. A heavy weight, tons of lilies blossoming in the darkest pit in his core. The world is in colors again. He can taste the red on his tongue but it’s not as ashy as he imagined. Not as dangerous. “Just aiming to see blood. To wipe my grin away.” Embers from the fire is so bright through Bruce’s eyes that he can barely concentrate on Joker’s words, he just wants to be consumed. Wiped off, forced to dance with burning ash. He doesn’t understand himself but for once in his life, he doesn’t want to find out what it means. Why he’s keener of laughing instead of running away. “So much anger.” 

Joker is grinning at him from a small distance; his body so close to Bruce’s but he doesn’t turn his back. Instead, he can feel himself wanting to draw closer, bury Joker in his garden to feel him grow. It’s strange, unnatural, but at that moment with everything crashed and burned, he just couldn’t care less. 

“You used to cling so desperately to the devil’s spine and blamed it on the marionette even if you always were the puppet master.” Joker’s fingers feels like burning ice on his skin but he remains still, both of them fixated on the glowing coal. It’s black magic, pieces of two souls lost in a hurricane. “This is what _fate_ means, darling.” 

“Don’t pretend that we’re soulmates, we’re not.” 

“Perhaps not, but it’s not a coincidence either.” They lock eyes for a second and Joker is feverishly searching his face for traces of regret, anger, disappointment. He’s not worried but he’s still looking, perhaps a bit surprised that he can’t find any of those three opponents. Bruce looks away, head still throbbing painfully but the lilies are outdated, rotten in his chest. 

“You bring out the worst in me”, Bruce whispers. 

“I disagree. Don’t you just _feel_ the possibilities? In this new world… you’ve suppressed a part of you way too long now. _No one_ had to die, Brucey. So keen on keeping your identity secure that you forgot who you really are. Going against your nature like this, can’t you just feel it burning in you?” He bends down next to the fresh pile of coal and picks up a handful of dust in his hand, painting his fingers black. “What a lucky shot that you get to experience your inner psychopath with me.” Joker raises his hand and places two dusted fingers underneath Bruce’s eyebrow, forces him to close his eyes in order for him to paint something on him. “Tell me something.” He continues painting thoroughly, fingers dancing easily on him. “Who are the real aliens’ in this new world? The green little monsters in your imaginary world, or is it human kind going against nature?” 

“Is that what you keep telling yourself in the morning, that those of us that don’t want to kill even if nature’s changed are aliens?” 

“No”, Joker giggles. “I keep telling myself that today is going to be so. Much. _Fun_.”

He feels empty but it’s a regular sensation in his body, and he thought that he never for the life of him would find something that is all-encompassing enough to fill the growing abyss in his sternum. There is no truth or falsity in the world and suddenly he knows that everything Joker’s been telling is true. He was never the one to build his home in the crossroads. Cupid stuck him with a raw sickness and nothing could break his heart more than the madman in front of him. Little pieces of him flow through Bruce’s vein, among plasma and blood cells. Bits of him bump into molecules of oxygen and they smile. No, they laugh, vigorously. Controlled by the moon, his shell is a womb; it will consume him if he refuses to bloom. 

He blinks heavily until the dust from the ashes that landed in his eyes are gone, staring slightly paradoxically into the eyes of the man he’s been fighting against for too many years. He doesn’t regret his decisions, none of them. The madman’s soul is ripped at every edge but would still come out as a masterpiece. 

They’re close, Bruce can smell the ashes off of Joker’s face and the madman could probably do the same. The floor is spinning but he doesn’t feel the need to sit down. How long has it been since he could taste the skin on his neck? Hours? Days? It feels like a millennium passing until Joker opens his mouth. Not to speak, but to feed, much to Bruce’s gratefulness. His neck becomes the universe with marks of the nebula and skin feeling like burning stardust. 

“I never lie”, Joker rasps and aches into Bruce’s fingers over his heart. For a moment he forgets his own name that’s been passed down in generations. Also the alias of the madman slips out of his mind. He bites down into the scarred flesh on left cheek and hopes to die; the throbbing turbulence in his head is too much. Joker sighs and ducks his head onto Bruce’s purpled neck. 

Every second of the past few years are running him over like a locomotive. The anger is washed away, the sadness of Rachel’s death is gone, and the fear of losing himself is long forgotten. A root in his heart buries itself out, choking his lungs with a sudden twist. There is something deep down that’s clawing itself out. They live in a world that demands certainties but he can’t give it to them, none of them can. _The only sensible way to live in this world is without rules_. A world with inside-the-box minds is no world for a clown and his twisted bat. He can feel it now, clawing and eating itself out; the outside of him becomes the inside and he’s about to be free. Once you drop your head in guilt or fear, you’ve lost yourself to the infinity. 

Joker could have him down on both knees, looking like the devil in shaded light and Bruce would still hunt him, whether it’s out of need or worship. Not realizing that he was the devil all along, creating this demon. Prayers into blasphemy, fingers deep into skin to make the surface bleed. 

“Bury me in that graveyard in your mind”, Joker continues, pressing his body tightly on Bruce’s and grins into Bruce’s roughly pressed hands against his cheeks. Bruce can feel the madman’s steady heartbeat and admires its pace when his own is jumping out of the chest. Bruce wants to break all of Joker’s ribs except for two so that it will look like an upside down crucifix inside his body. His mind is on an ecstasy trip into madness, consumed by the hidden part of his mind that’s been drawn to Joker’s gravity field. It’s not Joker’s games that have been forcing the psychopath out of him, it’s his own rules. The liability made him handicapped but the recognition made him whole. “I’m hollow; fill me with your dirt.” 

 

**

 

The mental Superdrug decreased after a couple of hours of staying away. He went to fetch the runaway cat while Joker punctured a hole through the skulls of the ones that didn’t die through the fire. It’s all still very surreal to him, the changes in his everyday life. Although, when he thinks about it a bit further, nothing’s really different. He just accepted himself as a whole. He is overflowing with everything that blossoms inside of him but instead of pushing it away until it dwells and explodes, he accepts it. Let it be a part of his decisions. He’s mentally defected. Joker has the power to alter the outcomes of things that require the occurrence of unusual phenomena, in this case; him. Manipulation. But instead of turning it into something bad, it actually helped. He manipulated him enough to break the barriers. 

He finds Batsy in a room with made beds. She’s snuggled into the sheets, making cooing noises when he steps inside. Her big, auburn eyes wash a flood of calm over him and he wants to curl into a ball next to her and disappear for a moment. She rubs against his hand and nibbles on his finger. 

“Why do you trust me?” he murmurs and picks her up, despite her sighing protests. She crawls up on his shoulder to still snuggle while he walks out of the room, ready to change environment. He’s missed the forest; the smell and the constant awakening feel that something’s watching. Just as he’s about to step out of the room he suddenly stops, eyes fixated on a certain point on the wall. Right beside him is a mirror, pretty rusty and dented but still seeable. What caught his attention first are the dark, marked spots on his neck that could be mistaken for an abusive punch. But touching them feathery only sent shivers down his spine, and not unpleasant ones. The next is the ashy painted bat symbol over his eyes, the realization of why they went to this new step in their complicated relationship to begin with. The start signal, _pang!_ but where will it end? “Better yet, why do you trust _him_?”

He walks out to fetch Joker; he needs to leave this building. Not because he’s suffocating anymore, but because it feels like a new chapter needs to start. 

“How did you know?” he demands to know when getting into the big room again. Joker furrows his brows at him, as if irritated of getting disturbed from playing around with the dead bodies. 

“It was a hunch”, Joker shrugs his shoulders. Bruce won’t let him get away with it again.

“ _How_ did you know?”

“That! There, right there.” Joker is waggling his finger at him. “The anger. There was so much _anger_ when you punched me, just like our first time.” He giggles. 

“You _murdered_ that little girl, _of course_ I was angry!” Bruce snaps because there’s _no way_ he could’ve figured it out by some fiery hits. 

“Your eyes were on fire as if I was the devil; you just hadn’t figured it out that you were Satan all along. You don’t know anger until you’ve had Batman wanting to crush your skull against darkened glass. And _that_ , Brucey, is how I figured it out. No one’s hated me as much as you, darling.” He collects Batsy from his shoulder and turns his back to him by the door. “I don’t know about you, but I’m _dying_ for some flesh. I could eat a human.” 

“As if you haven’t before”, Bruce murmurs, mostly to himself but he receives a high pitched laughter from the Joker. 

“That’s a whole ‘nother story, honey.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the small delay! I barely had any inspiration for this chap, but finally it came to me.
> 
> Also, I'm going to wrap this story up now. The next chapter will probably be the last, I'm not 100 % sure yet, but as it seems now, that's how it's going to be. 
> 
> Thanks for reading x

“Do you honestly believe that you’re ever going to understand me?” Bruce knew that the concept of a human being wasn’t hard to grasp, anyone with any of the senses would know. But if you lacked of something, whether how big, the idea would turn way more complex than just understanding. _being_ human isn’t hard, but living as one is harder. You could mimic other people’s behavior but you could also mimic an elephant’s trumpet sound and that doesn’t mean that you’re an elephant. Joker may or may not have been mimicking his whole life, but if he once was a human like Bruce, he sure lost it on the way. 

“Oh, dear, I understand you the most.” Joker is skipping on his feet, tumbling behind thick trees. Hidden behind the murk. The day had swelled into dawn and the trees were melting into the background. He disappeared but Bruce could still hear his voice loud and clear. He had to bite his chin not to smile. “But sure, go ahead and live your empty existence on your own, you self-centered pig.”

Bruce turned his head to the sound where he thought Joker stood, not believing his ears, baffled in shock. 

“Where did _that_ come from?”

He breathes out in relief when Joker giggles, not realizing he had it in. 

“I watched a soap opera once.” 

Uh-huh. Bruce snickers, imagining Joker curled up in a sofa with a bowl of ice cream, sobbing together with the heartbroken lady onscreen. He can’t help but laugh. 

“Just once?”

He can literally hear the bolts squeak in Joker’s head. 

“Once or twice”, the man mutters, still hiding behind the tree. 

“So… you finished it?” 

“…You’ve got no proof.”

Bruce laughs again and continues walking. He’s been offing a few zombies on the way, keeping the tracks clean and secure. He hears Joker break branches on the ground as he follows, yet hunching through the crispy mist of the blossomed dark. It consumed the light like a gaping mouth, swallowing the colors. There’s no plan in their minds as they walk; just away. Away from the sorrows they left behind. Not only the dead, fried bodies spread on the prison floor, but also their past life. Everything that was, isn’t anymore, so why still peeking with your eyes in the gloom, the melancholy of yesterday. The parts of him that bothered about justice and righteousness isn’t as glorified in as a whole, but more of a shadow behind the new. He didn’t abandon his past completely, just let his new self take a look at the apocalypse, and go with _his_ thoughts. 

He would be a fool to think that Joker didn’t have a huge part of him _accepting_ that what was, is gone. No change in the past is possible. And he’s not stupid. He just neglected thinking in those ways for a long time, until now when he kind of understands the reason of his doubtfulness. 

It’s not love, it’s stronger. A feeling but not interrupted by senses. He’s yet pretty much blind to it, or it’s not for him to discover yet. But he can still hear it whisper in him, a ghoul painting the insides of his lungs with a razorblade. He still wants to see it; see the blood seep, but he can’t reach his hand down his throat to catch the monster creeping in him. 

“Don’t judge me, I know you’re judging.”

Joker’s changed side; he’s now roaming, as quiet as he can in a forest full of obstacles, on Bruce’s left side. He feels secure having the madman out of sight, rather than sighing of boredom right next to him. If there’s a zombie, he’ll smite it like a fly between his fingers. 

“No judging”, Bruce lies. Because he is judging, a lot. Soap operas are the worst. 

“Psst”, Joker whispers suddenly, being a bit behind Bruce so he turns around, yet again blinded by the dark and unable to catch the man’s shape. “Let’s do a reenactment, but funnier.” 

“Of?” He raises his eyebrows, not liking the mischievous tone in Joker’s voice. It’s fitting right into the atmosphere surrounding them; just as raspy and spooky to be in a horror film. 

“Of the Dark Knight chasing the Joker on the streets of Gotham.” He pops out from behind the tree and stands right in front of Bruce, not as close as they did before but he can still feel the heat. And it’s vibrating predatorily. “ _Catch me if you can_.” And then he’s off. Turning around faster than Bruce could blink, ignoring the hurt in his legs as always to slalom underneath crowns. He’s far away, sprinting so fast and impressively, until Bruce starts running as well. He can’t see the man, but he hears the feet hitting ground so he follows it. Speeding up, jumping over fallen trees. The wind is smoothing over his chin. He’s smiling ever so slightly, connecting with a part of himself that feels familiar but still new. The potential for violence in his bones shimmered around him like a heated wire; pulsating artery. And he digs it up to get it to use while he sprints. Within the trees of an old forest, branches hollering up towards the sky, he _became_ the dark surrounding them. Not the Dark Knight as he supposedly used to be, but the inner gravestone in his heart. The rotten skeletons of which belonged to his old friends dug up and ready to rumble. No, he’s the wild, the old spirits that should be at rest. The darkness of death. 

It’s silent apart from running feet; two maniacs competing in a world that went to hell. He’s not used to this anymore, his lungs are screaming for rest and the lactic acid is burning up along his skin. It’s been a little less than three years since he fully chased someone, if not more because of his liking to use motor power in machines rather than his own physical ability. But running in a forest is nothing like the flat streets and sharp turns. It’s challenging to keep your body up and not stumble and fall. 

Is Joker thinking the same while he’s running to get away, or is there’s something else going on in his head? Perhaps the madman’s focused on the chase rather than the mobility. He should too, but the other aspects are just too strong to ignore and he loves the way his mind is able to connect with nature. Flowers grow from his scars; moss is filling the pit in his stomach where fear used to be. He’s bound; he and nature are one, just like mankind used to be. 

His body is forcing him to slow down, the burning in him is too much since he’s not used to it. But he’s still running, or jogging rather than trying to catch something. He can still hear the man in front of him, sick sacking through the forest and even if he probably will give up before winning, and he’s fine with it. This is okay. He can live with this. 

“You giving up, old man?” he hears Joker giggle and he snorts. 

“Old? If I’m old, what are you?” he calls back, lungs heaving roughly for more air. 

“An infant.”

That’s as personal they’ve ever got but Bruce can’t be more than a couple of years older than the man. So he stops. Standing in the middle of an ocean of green moss and speckles of lilac flowers. It’s gorgeous, but he can’t find himself caring about peace. He needs answers. 

Joker stops as well and he walks towards Bruce with Batsy in his shirt and a smug grin plastered on his face. Bruce tries to smile back but his mood changes just as fast as it gets to him. 

“What are you running from?” Bruce heaves, searching for answers on Joker’s face. The man still grins widely but got an uncertain frown between his eyes. There’s at least two meters of space between them but somehow, Bruce can almost hear the steady heartbeats. Joker’s frown got deeper and his grin even wider. 

“Nothing, it was just a game.” 

“Well, don’t. I don’t know what’s going on in your head, but as far as I know Batman’s dead.” He was about to add _move on_ , but didn’t. Somehow it didn’t sit right since he’s not sure he can move on from it as well. It’s like losing an old friend to some rabid dogs; not right. 

For a moment, Joker just stares. It seems like his loss of words is an object stuck in his throat. Then, he let out a strangled sound; a bit of a choked cough, a bit of a laugh. His expression is wary, not sure how to approach to Bruce’s statement. But there’s also a hint of something else. Something that Bruce didn’t think he’d seen in the man for a long time, or not at all. The same kind of look that he had plastered on his face the night Batman helped getting him caught; desperation. Bruce knows why; Joker is desperate for him to just _understand_ his words and move along with them. But how is he supposed to? What sane man understands the cryptic alien talk and the babbles about fate? 

“Uh, Batman is not—You, hmm…” He clears his throat but doesn’t wait long enough to have the silence speak for them both. “You’re not dead, Brucey.” 

“The moment I _fled_ from Gotham was the moment Batman died. Everything he believed in burned up in those flames.” 

“Drama queen”, Joker sighs. “It’s not the mask that makes you him; it’s what you fight for.” 

“Why are you telling me this? I thought you’d be thrilled.” 

Joker giggles softly and ducks his head. “Told you, I don’t want to kill you.”

Bruce ignores that, he doesn’t want to rewind the past one more time. “This is not what Batman stood for. He never wanted to cooperate with you, of all people. You murdered, Batman wanted justice. I followed you when you saved me from that hoard a year ago, even if I knew exactly who you were. Batman would never do that. That just proves my point.” 

Joker clenches his fists together but not in a threatening way. He’s not looking Bruce directly in the eye as he thinks about something. Tongue darting out to lick his lips and grinding teeth is enough to drive Bruce crazy. “What did you feel the moment you put that mask on for the first time, hmm? Regret? Darling, I don’t think so. There was strength, wasn’t it?” He’s getting closer, eyes darting. “I’m not much for power, but I know that strength. I recognize it. I _felt_ it. That kind of feel doesn’t just go away when you take off your cover up, uh-huh, sweetie.” His fingers are delicately touching Bruce’s neck lightly; enough to spread goosebumps all over his skin. “I don’t’ disappear as my makeup is washed down the drain, I don’t suddenly turn into A—uh, someone _else_.” He swallows harshly and neglects looking at Bruce, who stares at the man who’s only inches away from his face. Joker lets out a choked laugh again when Bruce’s arms creeps around his body to push him closer. This kind of intimacy hasn’t even been thought of between them; a _hug_ in the middle of yet another forest with Batsy still inside Joker’s shirt; pressed against Bruce’s chest. 

“My point is”, Joker continues; his forehead against Bruce’s. “Batman is not dead; you just learned how to live with him.” 

“Same goes for you, I presume, Mr. _A_.” 

Joker stiffens in his arms but doesn’t push away. He’s still not looking at Bruce but his lips are parted and he’s breathing hot air on Bruce’s face. It’s Bruce’s turn to swallow and he does it quietly. 

“Let’s just agree”, Joker murmurs, fingers playing with the hem of Bruce’s collar. “that we’re both fucking insane.” 

He wasn’t trying to get his heart of iron melt but there he was, standing upright with a psychopath in his arms. That kind of joke could bring whole villages into laughter for centuries. But he’s not laughing, not anymore. 

 

**

 

They walk further into the cold green; chills are dancing upon them since winter sooner or later will strike down like lightening. The moss feels crispy underneath heavy feet but they still blossom with life. Does it know that it’s about to die? Death by icy snow, drowned and frozen. Is it just a mechanism that the trees let go of its leaf before the cold takes its life, or does it feel the darkness hit? A rumbled cry of sorrow and screams that echoes ‘please, not again, I’ll do anything’. 

He’d survived a winter before and that was alone. Now with company of a scarred man and a fluffy cat, it shouldn’t be that hard. 

The unfamiliar feel of relax is flowing over him, all at once and he finds himself smiling brightly by the new incomer. This is as unnatural as it gets, him as an ex hero fighting crimes, walking side by side with the man that made his life hard living. A murderer, plain and simple. But he just doesn’t care anymore, this is his life, this is how he’s going to live it. Because at this moment, he can’t stand the thought of being alone. 

Joker stops for a second to let Batsy out of her nest. He clicked the harness on and she walks sleepily next to him. Not bothering about stopping just to be a bitch, like other cats, she keeps going in the same tempo as them. Bruce is impressed by the way Joker’s trained her; it must’ve taken some time. He wonders if the madman planned the murders with Batsy sitting on a table beside him, chirping answers when he talked to himself. The thought itself is very amusing. 

They continue to walk in silence until Batsy suddenly makes an unexpected turn. She’s determined to walk to the right, away from the imagined path ahead of them. Joker gives Bruce a look and shrugs his shoulders as if to say ‘there’s no harm in trying’, and follows. Bruce just continues to smile and goes after both of them, not bothered by the strange behavior of the cat. 

Some meters ahead of them stands, what it seems an abandoned cabin of some sort. Small and murky colored with dusty windows. No one must have been there for ages, perfect for roamers like them to borrow. Batsy is in the lead, Joker behind her; holding the strap and Bruce is not far behind. He’s having a better view around them to look out for the living dead. 

A small staircase is leading up to the front door. They look a bit moldy but it’s not far up to the porch. If it falls apart, all they have to do is take a big step. Bruce spot a chimney on the tiled roof and calls to Joker: “I’ll go find some loose branches, it must be cold in there.” The man answers with a hum and Bruce walks off a bit, not too far but just enough to gather some. He doesn’t end up having a lot in his arms before a nasty sound from the front is being heard; Batsy’s hissing shrieks, a gurgling growl and a loud thump from someone falling. He runs to the front just to see if Joker killed the son of a bitch but the sight left him with more than irritation. 

He doesn’t have time to comprehend with his reaction of attacking the beast but it’s done as soon as he realized it. The zombie is dead yet again but that doesn’t bother him. He turns around to Joker, who’s clasping his hand against his shoulder, a faint grin on his face. 

“My hero, once again.”

Bruce ignores his words and hurries up to him; one hand on Joker’s cheek and the other trying to get a peek of his skin. 

“Are you bit?” he manages to ask, voice thick with worry and eyes roaming desperately over Joker’s face. But Joker doesn’t answer; his smile melts off his lips and looks down on the ground. “Are you?” Bruce demands and forces Joker’s shirt off to reveal the shoulder. He’s shaking from the view of an open wound and blood, a lot of blood. “Fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....*nervous laughter*


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, psst, you're lucky, you know. I was going to make this chapter the last, but I changed my mind. x

They’re not talking. At least Bruce isn’t, and if the madman is; he’s not listening anyway. Stress is flowing through his veins, breaking barriers made of bone. He can barely look at the man on the other side of the room, too scared to witness death in his eyes. Instead of dealing with the situation they’re in, he’s starting a fire to warm their cold skin, not matter if it’ll help. Avoiding bodily touches and eye contact, he’s rummaging through the cabin with nervous steps. _It wasn’t supposed to be like this_. Nor _end_ this way. 

A beautiful and hideous collusion, an animalistic archangel. A bit of a genius, sees the new world as an opportunity. It’s as if he begged the madman to love him but knowing that he wouldn’t get any in return. _I don’t want this poison_ , he tried to convince himself.

Sunsets and coffee in the morning just wouldn’t be enough for him. Flowers come as a bouquet of daggers. _L’esprit de l’escalier._ He wish he could tell but the words are stuck. 

He thought it would’ve been bad for him. But no matter, he was addicted. Everyone’s who’s ever gotten close to him always ended up hurt. Joker could handle the pain. He’s immortal in Bruce’s homemade dead pool. Therefor he’s the best thing that Bruce has ever crossed paths with.  
He’s so fucked up. 

And now Joker’s dying.

Fucking zombies. It wasn’t supposed to end like this.

There’s this ache, gnawing inside of him. Deep down, lashing out at his fragile mind. He grew tired of being bruised the same shades of blue he’s spent his entire life enveloped in. Every time he’s touched his skin flinch a little, reminded of a wound once carved there. He wanted to pretend that he could go on about, without the giggling man by his side. But the familiarity of a dusty shade of blonde will forever be stuck in his head and he got used to thinking that he didn’t have to be on the edge anymore, that he didn’t have to be alone. 

Maybe they’ll meet again in another world, where the days are less hectic. 

He could sit up in the middle of the night, warning the moon about the madman, telling her to be afraid of his grins. He told her she would fall for him just like he did. 

He had been trying to hide Joker from the world, just to have nature kiss him to transparency. When the morning came he would try to sink beneath the skin between his shoulder blades. Where his beating heart used to be, Bruce nested; the ribcage became his bed. 

The sun loves the sound of maniac laughter when dawn turns to dusk, when flickering stars become crispy air. That’s why the sun is leaving freckles all over his skin, like fingerprints. Joker made the lilies grow in his lungs and although they’re beautiful, he can’t breathe.

And he realizes as he stares into the swelling flames in the fireplace, that he didn’t want Joker dead. It wasn’t his Bat thinking, it was nothing like that one time he saved Joker from hitting the concrete, head first. This is him holding onto the person that saved him. He needed Joker alive, for selfish reasons but he won’t believe that Joker will accept death and walk hand-in-hand with his reaper. That’s not going to happen. He didn’t lose everything he owned and cared about to end up alone again. Not this time. 

They’re still not talking but Bruce’s had enough of the distance. He needs closure; not safety, but something to grab onto if the ground would start to shake. He almost breaks his teeth crashing into Joker’s mouth; fingers finding hair to grab and skin to scratch with his nails. The kiss is more heated and desperate than any other they’ve shared and even if it’s never been about sharing love, he’s never gotten more affection than this. Joker is forcing his back against the nearest wall, growling predatorily against his blooded lips. If Joker would’ve bit through Bruce’s skin now, would he turn with him? 

“Want you”, Bruce hears himself and nips at Joker’s mouth, at his jaw and brushes quick kisses over each little bite. “Need you.” Joker is hard against him, breathing shallowly, rocking his hips gently forward and back, light friction that shivers all through Bruce. He reaches between them to rub at Joker’s erection; his dick throbs with each touch. 

“You know, there’s a bed”, Joker’s voice is raw and rough but Bruce shakes his head, still massaging Joker’s hard-on while biting into his lower lip; earning a gasped growl in return. 

“Couch is closer to the exit.” _In case I need to run_. Joker just agrees with backing up just enough for them to turn around without having to let go, and they stumble to the sofa, hands already moving; unbuckling, unzipping, unbuttoning. 

Bruce ends up on top of the smaller man and he luxuriate Joker’s bare skin from waist and up, warm and slightly damp with sweat. The blood over his shoulder is already coagulated because he hadn’t bothered to clean the wound, figured it didn’t matter. Especially with the man underneath him, tangled onto his body as if to devour his soul. He wanted to savor this. 

Joker’s breathing is coming out in hitches as Bruce bites down roughly in the hollow of his collarbone, nipples, sides and hipbones; scattering bruises all over his pale, scarred skin. He needed to feel the Joker being destroyed underneath his touch one more time, to feel the heat as he flames roars higher. 

He didn’t bother to take off his pants all the way when he had Joker naked underneath him; they were both desperate for the scalding heat. The first push of his dick into Joker had the madman throwing his head back, laughing in shock and eyes teary. No preparation, Bruce is pushing in dry into the tight warmth. 

“Oh, _God_ ”, Joker grabs Bruce’s head to force their lips together and he’s quivering in pain. “Ah- _ha_.” But the madman is not complaining, he only lets Bruce in to get fucked, hard and deep against the dusty cushion. He cursed loudly but is also starting to ease up, eyes closed with a face that seems to enjoy it more than he should. Ravishing heat is starting to build up in Bruce’s abdomen, white spots in front of his eyes. Joker cries out in impatient pleasure and Bruce had to pin his wrists above his head to not have the madman touching himself into release, and ratchet his hips sharp, rough thrusts. Joker looks almost unconscious under him, but Bruce knows he’s awake; head thrown back to expose his throat, mouth open and a faint grin spread on his lips. 

Bruce is close to explosion, so he grabs Joker’s dick in his hand and starts working him up, spill him over to his side of pleasure. Joke’s body finally seizures, cramping underneath Bruce, and comes in violence, spilling hot spurts onto his own stomach. He moans from the pit of his abdomen, eyes open but blind. Bruce is right there with him only minutes after, he bites down next to Joker’s bloodied shoulder and comes _hard_. Waves and waves of uninhibited dread swallowing him up, ecstatic like flame eating at his skin and metastasizing like cancer. Despite all that, he was in paradise. The sky was colored like hellfire and the weakness in him burn all the same, but still paradise. 

He’s lying heavily in top of Joker but the man’s not protesting; on the opposite, he’s creeping his arms around Bruce’s sweaty back and holds him there. Breaths still ragged and shallow, but Joker’s heartbeat remains the same. Bruce doesn’t bother to push himself off of the man in case he would turn, if the Joker’s body decides to give into the predatory once and for all, he will not back away. 

“Uh, you know”, Joker speaks up, a hint of uncertainty in his voice that puts Bruce on guard. Bruce is lying with the side of his face against the cushion, lips and nose bumping into Joker’s throat. His left hand was unconsciously stroking Joker’s face; eyebrows, scars, jawline. But the sudden sound of his lover made him stop for a second, preparing for seeing him turn into ash. “I would probably look awesome dead, I’m just one of those people.” 

Bruce’s brows furrow and he raises his head to look down at Joker’s grin. He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. But instead of either, he just slumps back into position with a sigh.

“I’ll be the judge of that.” 

“And when I die, I’m taking you down with me.” 

“I know.” 

Joker’s words are soothing enough to put him in a slumber but there are things he needs to do first; things he needs to say. So he whispers his thoughts into the madman’s ear, spilled all his sins and virtuous down his chest like droplets. A flame that rose from his abdomen, up his core to his mouth; the fire licked itself into Joker’s head. The little anxiety monster sat on his shoulder, to cheer him on with irrational worries and eliciting fear. He whispered all kinds of nonsense, desperate to distract Joker from dying. But when even tears are flowing into Joker’s ear and neck, Bruce forces himself to stop in a hurting breath. 

“Wow, Brucey, you’re even more damaged than I thought.” It’s meant to be a joke but Bruce only agrees, lips quivering and chest feeling restrained to prevent a cry to come out. 

“Don’t die.” It comes out louder; a panic attack blooming in his chest. 

Joker is still and silent for a moment but Bruce can hear his teeth grind against each other. 

“I’m bit, darling”, he tries; realizing Bruce is hurting more than himself. Not understanding why since all types of basic human emotions are Arabic to him. But Joker’s emotions are flickering across his face so fast it seems he isn’t feeling anything at all.

“Just don’t.” 

Joker sighs deeply and closes his eyes, arms still detached around Bruce’s neck; stroking soothing circles on his skin. 

“Alright, darling. Now, sleep.” An empty promise from someone’s who’s practically done for, but Bruce took it to heart and savored every last piece of it. It would be the mad hurricane in his chest that ended him, not the apocalypse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although, the next chap will be the last to prepare yourself. Bring out the paper tissues, change your beating heart into something cold and irony. 
> 
> I'm giving myself too much credit and I don't even deserve it hehhhh.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter, y'all. Thank you SO MUCH for all of your great comments, I go through them a lot just to smile and get all giddy. You're the reason we're here now, so don't blame me (I'm just kidding, blame me all you want because this is my fault).

It’s almost as if the day after the bite moved in a haze; as if Mother Nature willingly gave them more time to spend with each other. The thought is nice, but Bruce can’t concentrate on spending as much time with the Joker as he should. He’s restless, itchy and worried. Nervous. And even more because of Joker’s non-worried act. He’s nonchalant, sitting on the couch eating the canned food Bruce went out looking for when they woke up. Making Bruce even more distressed with his blunt use of words before he left:

_”What if I turn before you get back?”_

_“You won’t.”_

_“But if I do.”_

_“You_ won’t _, alright? Not before I get back anyway.”_

 __Bickering, like a married couple. Bruce grimaced. He wore out the floor by walking back and forth over the wood, mind racing with irregular thoughts. Joker’s shoulder is still not cleaned and the bite looks worse than ever; moist, bloody and purulent. It looks like it should hurt like a son of a bitch, but Joker didn’t even flinch. That was usual though, that’s not what worried Bruce. It was the fading of color in his face; how rosy cheeks slowly turned ghostly white, greyed and sick. He couldn’t bare the sight of his lover turning into a different kind of monster. Something that’s going to want to eat him up, _in an unsexy way_ , as Joker phrased it, giggling halfheartedly. He couldn’t, that’s why he stayed as far away from the Joker as possible, in the tiny house. 

_”Brucey, before you leave.”_

_He said it as if Bruce wouldn’t come back, just pack his belongings and let Joker rot in the house alone. It pissed him off; blood fuming with rage over Joker’s irresponsible thoughts, of how he assumed that Bruce is just another whore that would leave, after he got what he wanted. He didn’t even know_ what _he wanted, how could Joker be so sure he’d leave then?_

_He couldn’t answer, could barely listen to what Joker told him. But he stood still for as long as he dared, fists cracking._

_“My, uh—My name, my real name is, uh…”_

_That was it._

_“I don’t care.” It came out as a whisper but the tension around it screamed louder. Why is he giving up on life so soon? Who is this man in front of him, holding onto the cushions on the sofa so roughly? Cold sweat shone on his skin, the fire was orange in his eyes. Bruce wanted to beat the living sense out of him, to crack his skull open and find the source of his insecurities, or whatever was roaming around in there because this wasn’t him. This was the disease talking, it had to be. “I don’t care.” Louder this time but still quite enough for the sound of the squeaking screws in his brain to alter. He didn’t care because Joker had no name, he was his alter ego. He didn’t care because from the sound of it, Joker said good bye but Bruce wasn’t going to leave him._

_They stared at each other for a long time, Bruce breathing hard to not explode and Joker barely breathing enough._

__He had found a local store just a few miles away and gathered enough supplies for it to last a couple of days, if needed. Coming into the house again, he stepped into a room full of anxiety and delusions. The fire had died and was nothing but burnt coal and speckles of glow. It was cold from an open window and Joker lied half-naked on the sofa, shaking and whispering incoherent words in his sleep. His fingers were convulsively intertwined with the cushions, eyes rolling around underneath his eyelids. Sweat broke out of his forehead and it looked like he was in pain as almost inaudible sounds creeped up his throat and into the room. Sounds of rapid breathing, whimpers and groans.

Bruce crouched down next to the sofa and shook Joker’s stiff body, trying to wake him up from his feverish nightmare. It took him approximately ten minutes to have Joker regain conscious to reality again, pupils exploded in black all over his eyes, wide-open and staring crazily into Bruce’s. A stiffed laugh broke out of his mouth but his lips were vibrating and Bruce took the man into his arms, before he found out if the wetness against his shoulder is sweat or tears. 

Now, Joker is eating the food Bruce collected and Bruce is almost having a nervous breakdown. He used to have a hard time showing his emotions to his surroundings and he wanted to hide his fear. But then he learned that if he curled up in them, they’d stay to nest inside his mind. So he learned to wait it out, to conquer his fears. Emotions are like the weather, constantly changing and out of control. Whenever his anxiety strikes, it’s raging through him like thunder and storms. And the most valid and secure thing to deal with horrible weather, is to just stay inside at a safe place and wait for it to pass. It always goes away, whether it feels like it will burst out in an eternity, emotions and weather live by change. 

So he waits for his boiling anxiety and inner madness to pass. Lungs rapid for the right amount of air but he can’t provide just yet. Sometimes, he wonders why his life has to be so dramatic. It never comes in small threads of chaos, but instead as a total big bang that keeps exploding. He’s like a broken child of the universe, the most dangerous, and galaxies are growing inside of him. _Crash!_ Everything’s breaking apart. He’s glued the fragments together over and over and when he looks at the mosaics that are his life, he wonders what it is he’s trying to create. 

“You know, I’m terrified of bats.” 

He earns an incredulous look from the Joker and he darts his eyes all over Bruce’s face as if he doesn’t know where to hold his gaze. Bruce lets out a repressed laugh and staggers closer to the Joker. Hands ruffle his hair and he’s still smiling without being happy. 

“They told me there was nothing out there, nothing to fear. But the night my parents were murdered I caught a glimpse of something. Since then, I had been looking for it. I went around the world, searched in all the shadows. And there was something out there in the darkness, something terrifying, something that wouldn’t stop until it got revenge.” He stilled for a second; not to ride out the anxiety but to become the storm. “Why bats, you might think. Long story short, I fell into a well when I was a kid and the bats attacked me.

I was gone for seven years to use my fear as an advantage. So I became one. Bats frighten me, I figured it was time my enemies shared my dread.” 

He was close to the madman again, arms resting against the sofa and face hidden behind his tousled hair. Joker creeped closer, fingers playing with the dark brown threads of hair, humming low words into Bruce’s ear that sounded like a song. In the meantime, Bruce fought his mind from wanting to replay fragments of flapping wings and screeching sounds, predatory eyes ravaging his skin. 

“I know how to ignore this fear.” 

“So… what are you afraid of now?” 

Bruce looks up at Joker from behind his hair, eyes dark and full of fright. Joker isn’t moving a muscle to scurry away from the man. 

“Losing you”, Bruce admits, voice weak. “But how do I become you, to not be afraid?” He darts out a hand onto Joker’s face, stroking his thumb over his scar. “How did you become this?” 

Joker stares without looking for a while, mind and skin concentrated on the feel of clean skin meeting scarred and he sighs. 

“Long story short”, he mimics. “in and out of Arkham, prison, years of parental figures lashing out their rage in forms of broken bones and psychological terror and a city that didn’t give a shit, created this.” 

He spoke as a robot on repeat, a machine that had been fed information of someone else’s life. But it was good enough for Bruce to get an overall picture of what had happened. It didn’t bring him pleasure of any sort, neither satisfaction but he let it slide under the rug. But he needs to keep talking. Needs to hear the man’s voice as long as he can. Because the smell in the room is death. 

“I used to have hallucinations, when I was alone. They got worse when I met you.” He’s still stroking Joker’s face with his thumb and the man was almost purring. “Mostly about Rachel.” The name didn’t attack him like a wildfire anymore. It didn’t hurt as if someone cracked open his ribs. That had to mean something, probably that he finally had let her rest in peace like she deserved. He didn’t keep her between two worlds anymore. “She begged me to kill you when I had the chance, to end your life just like you did to her.” He swallowed. “But I couldn’t. At first, I thought it was my ridiculous belief in justice that let me stay on the good side of my sanity. But later on, I understood why.

I felt so vulnerable it was driving me crazy. I couldn’t handle it until it broke out of me, coloring my skies dark. I told myself over and over again; _’don’t lose yourself, Bruce’_ but I was already lost long before that. Maybe I just learnt how to pick up the pieces, you know?” he snorts out a laugh. “I don’t expect you to understand.” Their foreheads rest against each other and Bruce feels like he could finally breathe; the anxiety had rolled away with the wind. “I gave a piece of my heart to you and you don’t even understand what to do with it.” 

“I told you”, Joker murmurs. “ _you complete me_ , what else do you want me to say?” 

Bruce swallows again, unsure how to use his words to explain. There were a thousand things a normal human being would want to hear from someone they’d risk it all for. But hearing those three, small words coming out of his lover’s mouth, he couldn’t possibly ask for anything else. 

 

**

 

Another day passed and Joker was only getting worse. His nightmares more intense, fever raging hot, all colors fading. Bruce had his head on his lap, holding him down without hurting just so the madman wouldn’t fall off the sofa. Eyes darting underneath heavy eyelids and words coming out in an irregular pace, Joker held onto Bruce’s shirt with one hand and pierced is fingernails into his palm until it bled with his other. That’s what Bruce wanted him to do; hold on, as long as possible. Even if he was suffering. 

Darkness waits for the madman; one root, one essence. The shadow of despair. And there are as many ways to be lost in the light as in the dark. Bruce felt conflicted, walking on glass; fully aware. Death doesn’t come softly, it comes in many shapes of chaos; it’s going to be bloody, brutal and most of all it’s going to hurt like hell. 

He can’t stop touching the smaller, paler man; the madman that’s caked with sweat and murmurs. It’s as if his whole body loses sensation if his hands and mouth aren’t on him. He knows he has to imagine Joker when he’s gone. So he breathes it all in, the sight, smell, sensation; everything melts down into his fingertips for his memories to be strong. 

“I… never… seek death”, Joker whispers, eyelids still closed over his eyes so Bruce is not sure whether he’s awake or still dreaming. “I seek destruction.” A dainty smile covered his wan lips. “And I destroyed your image while laughing at your hate.” Eyes bloodshot, meeting Bruce’s. “I don’t regret anything because if I hadn’t destroyed you, you wouldn’t be here. If I hadn’t destroyed you, you’d be walking down the aisle in this very forest with her.

I am thirty years old and I lost my sense of self-hate. A boy from the past is looking at me right now, he just stands there. I don’t know whether he’s laughing or crying.” 

Bruce blinks. He spoke into the darkness and the darkness came to answer. He couldn’t hear Joker’s thoughts but while having him here like this, he didn’t care. Or was too scared to find out what was going in in that tainted head of his. Especially now. 

He caressed Joker’s face yet again but with his whole hand, trying to not to flinch away from the alarmingly cold cheek. Joker closed his eyes, forced breathing through his lungs and a mild cough. His face was screwed in a grimace, probably from the pain that’s pulsating through his veins. Bruce doesn’t realize he’s shaking until Joker grabs his hand and holds it tightly in his. Bruce is also looking at the inside of his eyelids, shutting them together harshly to maintain his imaginary strength. 

He’s so cold. His lover, his clown, his psychopath. So cold and on the edge between two worlds. 

He usually cried as a solid statue, while the magnitude of his sadness swept over him. It usually ended with a few tears dripping down his cheek or none at all. The only thing burning would be his eyes but that was easy to ignore. He could never ignore the eternal mourning of darkness inside his chest, throbbing and wailing; it spun him around like a satanic tango. But that was the time when he thought that he would forever be tormented by the past that couldn’t be undone. He was wrong. He doesn’t feel guilt anymore, whether it’s forgotten or forgiven, he doesn’t know. What he does know is that his grieving is lost in the torrid vortex of the moment; it was a moment that would carry him forwards until Death could release him from its clutches. 

But he didn’t want to dwell in guilt anymore and wander alone on the trails. He didn’t want to wait until the dead would carry him home. In that moment, when his silent tears broke into something more violent, he knew what he had to do. In that moment, he cried like he’s never cried before. He couldn’t breathe slow, steady breaths as the sadness and panic rode in him like a rodeo of life or death. Instead he filled his lungs with erratic air and heart almost breaking out of his chest. He cried as if his brain was being shredded from the inside. Emotional pain flowed through every pore. From his mouth came a cry so raw that even the eyes from strangers would be wet with tears. 

He grabbed onto Joker’s jaw and shoulder so that his violent shaking wouldn’t cause him to fall and from his eyes came a thicker flow of tears than he’d ever experienced. His whole world would vanish from him, now there was only pain enough to break him, pain enough to change him beyond recognition. 

He’s losing his mind… again. He can feel it unraveling, the threads of every happy memory he could ever once recall, all but a disarray of strings scattered underneath his feet. His eyes see nothing; they have lost all sight of what is and what could have been. His mouth is open, an eternal silenced scream; stained with the memory of those he ever loved.

Joker is holding him tightly, cupping his hands on Bruce’s cheeks and whispers nonsense into his ear. The same monotone sound between his teeth, _schh, schh, schh_ over and over again. But his grip starts to falter and the sounds are fading, Bruce holds on to the madman but the man isn’t doing the same. A wild pulsating thrum is going through Bruce’s heart, erratic and scared. He hasn’t yet dared to open his eyes but he needs to see it one last time before it’s too late. 

So he opens his eyes to stare into two dead. Even in death, Joker looks like the most turbulent person Bruce has ever met. 

His green eyes are dark but they still shine like a forest in late spring. Bruce is still crying and his breathing is uneven but he dares to smile because he knows what he has to do, to not walk alone in the world ever again. 

He reaches down, hands cupping Joker’s cold cheeks, not flinching away as a groaning sound slips out of Joker’s throat. It’s high-pitched and unhuman, but Bruce doesn’t push him off of himself to run. Instead, he’s going to meet the zombiefied Joker halfway, in the deadliest kiss of his life. Joker is clutching his fingers in Bruce’s hair harshly, aiming to kill, as if he wants to rip large tufts of hair and make him bleed. Still lying down, the zombie is reaching up, mouth open and teeth bared. His green eyes are milky white. 

Bruce is ready to get bit; he doesn’t want to walk in this forest without his evil twin by his side. He’s already lost too many, he can’t lose another one without going into the gates of hell himself. Still reaching down; slowly, slowly towards Joker’s open mouth. The grip in his hair is so painful he squeezes his eyes shut so hard it burns from the tears. But he doesn’t stop moving down. 

They’re inches away; Bruce can almost sense Death waiting for him at the altar. Their teeth are brushing against each other and Bruce steadies himself; prepares to be ripped to shreds and the pain that’s going to push him into a void. He opens his eyes one last time to remember the moment he offered his life to a lover he never though he would have, to swallow the sight of him wanting to murder Bruce with his teeth. 

But as soon as the zombiefied Joker’s grip in his hair eases, he knew. The bite that was supposed to happen didn’t. Instead their lips met and Bruce breathed hard on Joker’s skin, confused. Body still pale and sweaty and the lack of color made him look just as dead as he was; it was the eyes that spoke the loudest. He stared in shock as milky white faded into forest green again. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. Was _he_ dead? Perhaps the bite had already happened and he was now in heaven, because what he witnessed underneath him was _impossible_. But _how_ did Death collect him so quickly, without him feeling a single thing? 

Joker looked just as shocked as Bruce felt but aside from Bruce’s limp body; Joker just couldn’t seem to stop touching him. 

“I…” his lover started, but was quickly interrupted by clearing his throat, as if he wasn’t used to speak. “I pushed it away.” 

“Okay”, Bruce whispered, nodding, not knowing how to respond properly. They look directly at each other, still close, but no one makes another move to closure their bodies together again. “Okay.” He pushed it away. “It’s funny”, he continues. “The person that spoke so lowly about humans going against nature is the one that succeeded the most.” It wasn’t funny, it was ironic and weird. But it was the first thing that Bruce could think of saying in a situation like this. 

“Shut up”, Joker said but he couldn’t maintain a serious face without giggling so loud it hurt Bruce’s ears. Bruce just stared, thinking he was smiling but wasn’t sure. It felt so surreal. 

“So, it’s gone? The virus?” Bruce tries, hoping for the best. 

“I don’t… know. I don’t think so”, Joker sighs. “I can still feel it creeping in me. I pushed it away into a corner of my mind, but I can feel it gracing its teeth against my bones.” He ducks his head against Bruce’s cheek, breathing lightly. “I’m not afraid of dying; I just didn’t feel like it so… here I am.” He snorts. “I really wanted to know what you taste like but I figured there’s other ways to find out.” 

Joker just giggles, with his hands intertwined with Bruce’s. He’s basically sitting in Bruce’s lap, head still resting against his cheek. Bruce is struggling to keep his laughter in, but it’s all too surreal.

“You kinky bastard, is that why you didn’t turn, huh? I can’t believe it.” By the end of that sentence, they’re both laughing, alive and real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINITO. 
> 
> Again, thank you so so so so so so so much for your lovely response to my trashy batjokes series, I have no shame. 
> 
> Now, I have plans. I didn't want to leave my boys too soon in this wild world. I was thinking I'd do some one-shots about what happens next and yada-yada? Some post-did-they-just-express-their-eternal-love-for-each-other-OH-NO and add some characters just to spice things up a bit, does that sound ok? Because I'm not ready to leave them, they are my sons after all. I'm a proud dad. 
> 
> If it happens, I don't know WHEN. I have some ideas etc but writing is about building up to something that could be great just to destroy it in an anti-climatic mess, right? ...right? No? Fine. 
> 
> If you want to leave some ideas that'd be G R E A T, I'd accept anything because everything could happen at this point tbh. 
> 
> Again x2, THANK YOU. Love you all. You're awesome. xx


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